Walking Wounded
by Mirrordance
Summary: Danger does not stop for grief or injury. For Legolas, there is no rest, respite, or relief on the seemingly endless road between Moria and Lothlorien. He, with the Fellowship he has sworn to serve, has no choice but to move forward, hurting and heartbroken.
1. Chapter 1: Walking Wounded

**Title** : Walking Wounded

 **Summary** : Danger does not stop for grief or injury. For Legolas, there is no rest, respite, or relief on the seemingly endless road between Moria and Lothlorien. He, with the Fellowship he has sworn to serve, has no choice but to move forward, hurting and heartbroken.

 _hi gang!_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, discussed - or anything else that these modern new fanfiction . net features allow people to do - my most recent LOTR story, "A Stranger Comes Home." As I mentioned in the fic's Afterword, (and in PM's I've since sent out to reviewers who made such contact available), I am really really grateful for you sharing your time and thoughts with me, and you should know you are instrumental in inspiring further writing._

 _I would also like to thank those whom I was unable to PM: anonymous readers and guests, kikyou, vikky-leigh, Irish Anor._

 _Thank you everyone for your kind words and encouragement. I hope you have fun with this one too:_

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Chapter 1: Walking Wounded

* * *

"I hope you do not think me indifferent to what you suffer."

Aragorn's feet were inhumanly light, but the elf's ears were sharp to begin with and even more so at that moment, attuned and hyperaware of his surroundings. They were still being chased and hunted, and all his senses reached out broadly - a net cast wide - for signs of threat against the remnants of their Fellowship.

Legolas let the ranger come up beside him without bothering to move from his position. He was stooped over, one palm planted on his knee and the other hand clutching at his side as he tried to catch his breath. The rest of the company was trailing a minute or two behind.

For a moment he considered continuing with the ruse, but it was too trifling a thing to bother with, especially after all the greater things they've thus far suffered. After all they've lost.

"I thought I was being discreet."

"You are clever," Aragorn conceded with a sigh. "The excessive scouting, the distance you keep. It stood to reason you kept trying to be alone for… for your grief. But I realize now you must have been tending to your wounds, seeking particular herbs perhaps, or as now, bent over trying to breathe."

The elf had claimed enough rest and humor to ask, ruefully, "So what gave me away?"

"The smell," replied the _adan_ , "It is very distinct."

"Ah." Legolas' brows rose in realization. "That would do it."

He had used a salt wash to clean the wound, a salve of sap, spice and ground leaves and flowers as coagulant, willow bark for the pain, a bit of mint to ease the head and stomach from the willow, a leafy stimulant to chew on for alertness against the disarming comfort of the mint… There was an herb to counter another herb to counter one more that helps contain the wound, Legolas realized, perversely. Or maybe it was weakness and weariness that prompted the macabre side of his sense of humor. Either way, he was unsurprised that a healer of Aragorn's caliber, with experience in the treatment of soldiers and warriors, would recognize the combination of smells anywhere.

"The skills employed are not negligible," Aragorn said, impressed as he sniffed.

"Our warriors are trained in providing rudimentary aid for ourselves and our brothers in the field," Legolas explained, "but the King Thranduil felt it especially prudent to educate any heir of his in all aspects of warfare. I did a number of seasons with healing arts after a lifetime of combat training." He tried to straighten up but couldn't, and so continued the conversation and used its distraction to buy time.

"I didn't mind the temporary reassignment." He chuckled to himself and stifled a cough, "I've seen firsthand from journeys with you that it can be most useful. Not that I had much choice in the matter. It was by King's command. I was a notoriously insufferable patient, and he thought the immersion would give me better perspective."

Aragorn snickered. "Did it?"

"It was an eye-opener," Legolas said. He tried to straighten up again but his side and lower back traced a hot, crooked line of burning pain along its length, his breath hitched, and he hunched to appease his body's demands.

"Learning lifesaving ways was a given and I made a decent apprentice," he shared, "But I was surprised by acquiring other wisdom. Among them patience for the ailing and fellow-feeling, and how to trust the Realm's warriors to get their job done without my help so that I can focus on my own. I tell you, Estel - it was torture, having to pick up wounded soldiers and tear them from the front for treatment without raising my own weapons and charging toward the enemy."

"The healers have their own brand of courage," Aragorn said.

"I've learned how to handle stubborn, half-healed warriors fighting me tooth and nail to get back out into the fray," Legolas added gravely. "There are those you force down, and others you just have to let go. I also understand better now, all the effort it takes to mend a body. One shouldn't be so reckless."

Aragorn blanched theatrically to tease him. "Are you sure you've learned that part?"

Legolas found it worth the effort to remove his hand from his burning side to take a swipe at the _adan_ , who did not dodge and took the hit in good humor. Legolas groaned and brought his hand back to where it was resting, squeezing as if to keep the pain from expanding.

Aragorn sniffed again, and Legolas knew he was trying to determine what ailed the elf based on what treatments he smelled. Legolas decided to spare him the guessing game.

"I'd taken a miscellany of cuts and bruises from our skirmish in those accursed caves," the elf confessed. "Just like all the rest of our party."

"Poison?"

"No," Legolas replied wryly, "but dirty blades, unsurprisingly. Enough to incapacitate, not to kill."

 _Yet_ , they both thought. Neither one voiced it.

"The only thing distracting me is a hit I'd taken about my side and around to the back," Legolas said. "A light punishment if you think about it, considering I've courted the ire of a cave troll armed with a club."

"Broken bones?"

"Not even cracked," Legolas answered.

"Broken skin?"

"Insignificant."

"Bruised lungs."

Legolas considered his level of pain, breathlessness, dizziness and coughing. "Aye, that would account for much."

"It's getting worse," Aragorn said quietly, conclusively.

 _But we cannot stop_ , came another unvoiced, shared thought. But Aragorn worked his lip furiously, and Legolas could all but hear the gears turning in his head, of calculations made and risks and rewards measured.

"I think we can spare a minute, even for just a look."

"Nay, Aragorn-"

"There are herbs on my person," Aragorn insisted, "Things you do not have and that I wield particular skill in applying. It won't take long."

Legolas sighed. "Careful removal of quiver and tunic and shirts alone will take aggravation and more time than we have, much more any further treatment. If we should stop lengthily enough, I will consider it. I am as well as I can be given the circumstances, my friend. The injury is well-tended and the plants and trees of our path have been generous with things that help. I cannot ask anything more at this time."

Aragorn was silent and Legolas felt a storm brewing, so he straightened up to illustrate strength of will, if not necessarily strength of body – he had to stifle another groan and cough.

"I swear on my name and the very blood of Mirkwood elves that runs in my veins - the injury does not interfere with my duties to the Ringbearer," Legolas said vehemently. "Otherwise I would have made it known."

"I expect nothing less of you."

Legolas nodded and glanced behind them. Elf and man stood at a descent from a small hill, their companions not yet within eye line but close behind.

"Do you trust me?" he asked the ranger suddenly.

Aragorn hesitated, which made the elf's lip turn up in a grin.

"Yes," the man replied pointedly before Legolas could tease him. They were old friends, and trusting each other meant they had a host of memories doing something extreme or odd for the other at some point in their lives.

"Then trust my judgment," Legolas implored, seriously. "There is nothing further to be done with the wound that will not incapacitate me, and we do not have that luxury. We are barely ahead of our foes, Aragorn. They are so close their feet shake the very ground we stand upon. But we are nearing our refuge. We must move forward and to move forward, we must let it be. I tended to it as best I could. I swear to you this body will hold."

Aragorn's stormy gaze bore into his. There was no decision to be made here, they both knew it. Only assurances. There was no way but forward and no time to waste.

"Lorien is at least a day away," Aragorn said quietly.

"It will hold," Legolas promised.

"But at what cost?" murmured Aragorn.

Legolas looked away and shook his head at the man dismissively. Any price would be worth it, if the Fellowship can succeed in what they had set out to do.

Aragorn set his jaws in continued disapproval but nodded. In a firmer voice, he said – "Take no unnecessary excursions. I will watch you carefully so stay in my sight. I beg you not to hesitate to speak to me of any further difficulty. I will interfere with you as I see fit, but understand that when I do, it is out of necessity."

"Thank you, _mellon-nin_ ," Legolas said.

"I expect complete honesty when I inquire of your situation," Aragorn added, "Spare no detail."

"I've been straightforward thus far," Legolas pointed out.

"That you have," sighed Aragorn. He sniffed at the air again. "Which brings me to another question. I sense something in your treatments. Something unfamiliar to me."

"I should hope so," Legolas said, knowing exactly which aromatic herb the healer may have scented. "I'd taken a stimulant—"

"Legolas—"

"Small doses," Legolas said in defense, "Perfectly suited to the constitution of an elf, but yes, otherwise lethal. Especially to humans and other peoples. I can handle myself with them, as many in our Woods have learned to."

Aragorn gave him a long, measuring stare. It made him uneasy, so he explained further.

"It's a trick I've picked up from another immersion Father had seen fit to expose me to."

Aragorn knew the elf was trying to distract him into a different line of conversation, but he was curious enough to ask, warily, "I'm assuming you've had seasons doing something either extraordinarily dangerous like a lengthy border patrol, or something exceedingly mundane such as night duties at the deathly quiet, interior Halls of Thranduil."

Legolas couldn't help the grin that formed in his lips at Aragorn falling, even knowingly, into the desired deviation. "I've done those, yes. But the stimulants I picked up from duties with the Quartermaster, if you can believe it. To this day it puzzles me how a series of tasks can be all at once repetitive, uninspiring, thankless and without glory, yet still be of the utmost importance and needed, always needed _promptly_. I've crafted arrows and bows and other weaponry and kept and cleaned them. I've acquired and transferred provisions of shelter, food and water fit for an army and yes, I've done my share of laundry, Estel."

Aragorn's brows rose. "Never let it be said that the Thranduilion does not know his Father's army inside and out, top to bottom, indeed!"

"It wasn't a popular division," Legolas said, "but the few who were there never let overwork hamper their efficiency, sometimes at the cost of their own health. They taught me the importance of every job, and how to toil quietly and without desire for anything other than service. We are, after all, a people at war." He said this with some unhappiness, before adding with considerable pride, "More than any other elven realm, Mirkwood demands everything out of everyone within it. We reach the end of our rope often, only to find there is always something left to tug and pull and gnaw on. There is always something left."

Aragorn looked at Legolas with a light in his eye, something the elf couldn't completely grasp.

"Now that lesson," he said quietly, "I think you've mastered."

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of their approaching fellows. Man and elf glanced in the direction from which the rest of their group would soon emerge.

"Please speak of my injury to no one," Legolas implored his companion. He winced and rubbed the back of his neck in chagrin. "It is not from some vanity though when it comes to the dwarf I can confess to some. The halflings… have had quite a shock. I do not want them to have any further reason to fear for their safety. They must find me able."

Aragorn grimaced, but nodded. There was little anyone could do to return the hobbits' carefree innocence after the fall of their beloved Gandalf, but he understood the elven warrior's compulsion to try.

Side by side, they watched as each of their remaining company – but six, now – trudged down from the hill in their direction.

Frodo led the way, pensive, burdened, somewhat detached from the others. Sam trailed after him with a soft clanking of pots and the padding of clumsy feet, never too far away. Behind him were a weary Merry supporting Pippin, who had his heart on his sleeve and grief marring his ever-expressive face. The dwarf came up behind the hobbits, eyes fiery red from tears and determination. The man from Gondor brought up the rear. Strangely, Boromir looked extraordinarily strong and in his element – no stranger was he to danger and mortality – but his gaze was concerned for the young ones he had always seen as misplaced children.

"You have my trust and my silence," Aragorn promised Legolas, before any of the others could hear. He pressed a hand upon the elf's shoulder reassuringly, before joining their other companions.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 _In the next chapter, we go back to a time in Mirkwood, where Legolas' time in the Quartermaster's office proves much more perilous than Thranduil could have imagined. 'Til then, thanks for reading and as always - constructive comments and criticism are welcome :)_


	2. Chapter 2: Days Like These

**Title** : Walking Wounded

 **Summary** : Danger does not stop for grief or injury. For Legolas, there is no rest, respite, or relief on the seemingly endless road between Moria and Lothlorien. He, with the Fellowship he has sworn to serve, has no choice but to move forward, hurting and heartbroken.

 **The Story So Far:** It's at least a day's walk away to the refuge of Lorien, and Aragorn discovers Legolas concealing a gradually worsening injury they can do nothing about. In this chapter, there is nothing to do but walk and move forward - and Legolas reminisces on a time past when he had to do the same.

 _hi gang!_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, discussed - or anything else that these modern new fanfiction . net features allow people to do - the first chapter of "Walking Wounded." I am particularly grateful for reviews, as those shared by Sentinelle, Lydwina Marie, MissCallaLilly, Alanic, She-Elf23, SuicidalQueen, and "Guest" and "Reader."_

 _When I first posted the preview of this story at the end of "A Stranger Comes Home," I thought it was almost finished but I was wrong! This chapter is one of the major changes in direction, and I hope it is still enjoyable. At any rate, thanks for your time and as always, constructive comments and criticism are welcome._

* * *

Chapter 2: Days like These

* * *

Lorien was only a day away, Legolas reflected, and yet some days never seemed to end, did they?

He walked and walked and kept walking.

Legolas had days like this before, where he had to move step by agonizing step by agonizing step forward. Where a litany of steps composed a harrowing journey, and every single one was a decision not to stop. Every single step was a decision to keep going. Where the only option was to inch along and survive.

The bone-deep exhaustion was easiest to bear whenever he served as a warrior. Danger and sometimes desperation were great sources of energy and strength, and in times of chaos and confusion, one could always either follow commands that couldn't go unheeded or simply fall into habits and practices that had been drilled into him during training.

In his seasons of service in the healing wards, his problem was often the converse – too much nervous energy. When there was a battle, he waited anxiously for the return of the Realm's warriors knowing many would not come back unscathed, and all the while barely restraining himself from coming after them. When they arrived he would be anxious about doing the right thing – did he triage properly, were his estimations and diagnoses correct? After treatment he would then worry for the recovery and potential relapse of colleagues and friends. Sometimes he wouldn't even know how exhausted he was or how much time had passed until he would "rest his eyes" and wake up a day and a half later.

Exhaustion was hardest to bear in the Quartermaster's division. In the assembly line of arrow shafts, for example, he recognized the importance of his work and at the same time the maddening repetition of it. The same went for the counting and logging and loading and ferrying of provisions. It was unpopular work for elves, and an assignment he had received with a measure of unhappiness.

 _"_ _Would my skills not be better suited elsewhere, adar?"_

 _He had phrased it as a question and with wariness of tone; lest he be considered defiant or insubordinate or even just whiny. If he was found impertinent, the Elvenking could very well command his son there for a century._

Thranduil was nevertheless insistent in his son's comprehensive education, and Legolas dutifully followed in the hopes that prompt compliance and rapid learning would have him returned to combat duties in no time. He became a quick study in crafting or maintaining weaponry as well as supplies procurement and movement, and had even become adept at keeping blood out of laundry and mending clothes ripped by their enemies' jagged weapons. The skills were relatively easy for him to acquire, especially with his dexterous fingers.

 _"_ _It's different from this end, isn't it?" asked the Quartermaster's wife, Authel, who commanded the Battle Dress Service._

 _Legolas was turning in his hands a wildly torn tunic, still damp with the blood of a warrior. He'd recognized its make and markings and size, and therefore knew its wearer. His hands trembled in realization of this, and he was surprised by the steadiness of his voice when he replied, "I hardly expected it to be the same, clearly."_

 _The tone was chillier than he wished, but he cared little for being lectured at that moment. "At least he lives," Legolas went on._

 _"_ _What makes you say that, my lord?"_

 _Legolas' hands turned cold, and his mouth was dry when he said, "Well he wouldn't want it mended and returned otherwise..."_

 _"_ _Did the warriors not tell you?" Authel said softly, "He has passed on. It is the younger brother who seeks its re-use."_

 _Legolas blinked at his blurring vision and set his jaws. His fingers also tightened about the wretched garment, before he could get better control of his heart and his reactions._

 _He had been avoiding the warriors. At the beginning of his unconventional new assignments, he'd been joshed and asked by his peers if he was being punished. But as injuries mounted, and soon deaths followed, the questions became more earnest. Was he hurt or ill? Could the King be prevailed upon to let him go on this mission,_ just this one _, as he was so badly needed?_

 _None dared question Thranduil's decision openly, but Legolas was neither deaf nor stupid. He knew what some of the warriors grew to think over time. At moments of such peril, when Legolas' skills were best needed, the Elvenking his father has pulled him from the front lines to spare him. He was at least coddled and at worst, possibly a coward for accepting it._

 _"_ _That child is barely out of training," Legolas all but growled spitefully. "He is sent to battle even as I languish here."_

I shouldn't be here _, he thought angrily,_ We are wasting time and valuable skills. _I_ am wasted here.

 _He released the torn tunic after a squeeze of, of apology he would guess, and headed for the door. He would join the warriors wherever they were, the Elvenking's commands aside and the punishment sure to follow be damned._

 _He stalked in and out of his rooms with his weapons and armor, but the stables were as far as he got. Its entrance was manned by two of Thranduil's most humorless personal guards, whose impassive faces revealed nothing but whose mere presence said everything –_ The King is here and you are not going anywhere _._

 _Legolas all but hissed at them as he walked past, into the large, wooden structure where his father was waiting. It was normally caught in a flurry of activity, but not today. The King had sent them away, that he may have words with his son._

 _"_ _Tell me," Thranduil began, "how should I punish a warrior who abandons his assigned station and directly disobeys the King's orders?"_

 _Legolas was angry enough to retort, "What warrior I've become you had unmade, Father."_

 _Thranduil's brows raised at the contest. "As easy to undo as that, is it, Legolas?"_

 _Legolas shook his head at Thranduil. "What lessons you seek to teach I implore you to just say plainly. When our soldiers die for me to learn some things, then this is an education we can ill-afford."_

 _"_ _Would your mere presence in a battle be the difference between someone's life or death, between winning and losing?" Thranduil countered. "There is conceit in that, you must admit."_

 _"_ _I know my skills," Legolas said confidently, "I know I can contribute to outcomes."_

 _"_ _And yet you cannot be in every battle and every front, can you?" Thranduil pointed out. "There are larger pictures you must see, Legolas, and a part to play for each one. Warring skills alone, though you have plenty, cannot be the sole determinant of deployments. Tell me this – if you were to objectively send to the front only our Realm's best warriors, would I not count amongst them?"_

 _"_ _Yes but you are the King—"_

 _"_ _And we must all play our parts, must we?"_

 _"_ _It's not the same."_

 _"_ _Isn't it?" Thranduil walked around Legolas, which he had always found unnerving when he was younger, but he was angry enough to bear at that moment. He followed his father's progress with a glare._

 _"_ _They think you're a coddler and I'm a coward."_

 _"_ _Small minds will think whatever little thoughts they can conjure," Thranduil said easily. "Is that what's bothering you, then?"_

 _Legolas shook his head. "I have skills to share, at the proper place to share it. I am wasted where I am. And in the meantime, our people are dying."_

 _"_ _You are a Prince of the Realm, Legolas," Thranduil said. "Your warring skills cannot be enough, considerable as they are. You will be needed for far more than your bow and knives. Your people need your restraint as much as your strength. They will need your sound judgment, not just your impulse to fight and protect. They will need your love, Legolas, not just your loyalty – know them, work alongside them, suffer what they suffer. The Kingdom is far larger than the warriors beside you. They are the families who let them leave, the healers who mend them, the workers who prepare and supply them, the Council that has to send them away - sometimes to death. All of their burdens, you would have to learn to bear."_

 _Thranduil opened his hands up at Legolas expectantly, and the younger elf, resigned, handed his father his all of his arms._

 _"_ _Return to your post,_ ion-nin _."_

 _Legolas went back to Authel's shop glumly, and found the tattered tunic that had given rise to his outburst exactly where he left it. He picked it up, and started the arduous process of giving it life anew. Authel worked beside him._

 _"_ _It might surprise you to know," she said quietly, "that is not the worst of damages we've repaired and sent out from here, for use again in the wars."_

 _"_ _Indeed?"_

 _"_ _I've personally," she revealed, "mended not a few of yours."_

 _The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. He'd taken a particularly grievous injury once, and when he gained his senses back a week later, had written off the beloved tunic as shredded beyond repair. When he returned to his rooms from the healing wards weeks later, there the garment hung, ready for battle again, as mended as he himself was._

 _"_ _I've never thanked you," he said._

 _"_ _I can only be grateful my work helps you do yours, my lord."_

Things became easier for him from there, even while the work never seemed to end at the Quartermaster's division. It only either slowed or sped up or sped up or sped up or sped up. There were deadlines to meet and shortages to face, supply routes and schedules to plan, negotiations with traders to accomplish, personnel and finances to manage. Legolas never knew boredom and worry and exhaustion could exist so collaboratively.

He did, however, make a surprising number of friends. The elves in the division had been wary of him at the start – they didn't expect a Prince of the Realm to get his hands dirty, or a warrior of some renown to take their work seriously - but Legolas rectified it quickly by proving himself in his dedication to any type of assigned work. They then proved generous in teaching him their ways, including the occasional partaking of stimulant herbs to keep them productive in times when they had no luxury to stop working.

 _In one such unfortunately memorable instance, harsh weather and a particularly bold ambush required an unexpected demand in weaponry and supplies to Mirkwood's southern borders. The Quartermaster's division scrambled, working day and night for two days straight before journeying for another, toiling continuously and stretching themselves to the limits. They had accomplished their task, only to be ambushed themselves on the road back to the stronghold of the King's Halls._

 _They were exhausted and had but a smattering of soldier escorts on the return home. It was a miracle they would come out of the battle alive – thanks in no small part to the unexpected presence of the highly experienced warrior prince in their midst, whose absence from combat after seasons of service at the healing wards and thereafter in their own offices, did not preclude him from displaying a show of strength and strategic defense._

 _But the victory did not come without cost. Legolas' first stop upon returning to Thranduil's Halls, like all the soldier escorts they had with them and not a few of the Quartermaster's division, was to the healing wards he'd served in just months prior. It was, as a matter of fact, from a humble cot in a quiet corner there that he made his report to Thranduil and the King's closest counsel. He sat as straight as he could manage while leaning heavily against the headboard. He did not like being looked down upon._

 _The grilling was quick; the counselors had a measure of mercy yet for a weary young elf nursing injury. In no time at all they were leaving him in the company of his father. The healer assigned to his care, Maenor, shooed them away and closed curtains around the small space, for Thranduil and Legolas to have a modicum of privacy._

 _"_ _The Kingdom must be in dire straits indeed if the Prince is compelled to make a report from his sickbed," Thranduil said quietly._

 _Legolas was exhausted and hurting, but did not miss the apology underlining the dry statement. It was as much of a sorry as he was going to get from his father, who looked both worried for his health but also professionally anxious to know more about the attack he had survived._

 _"_ _Not quite so dire," Legolas attempted at levity. "Not a single one of your barrels or crates was compromised, after all." He despised that his voice came out thin and breathy, the very cause for his confinement in the ward. The healer who had examined him upon his arrival did not like how he sounded, and how he struggled for speech and breath._

 _"_ _Indeed." Thranduil sighed. "You look exhausted, Legolas. I shall make arrangements for transfer to your rooms, that you may rest comfortably and recover more quickly."_

 _"_ _I am comfortable enough here, father," Legolas insisted, knowing the trouble such a move would cause. "I do not want to divide the attention and resources of the healers. It would be an inconvenience to have to shuttle supplies and personnel back and forth just to tend me, especially as there are so many of us here in need of aid."_

 _Thranduil frowned, but gave in with a small nod. He decided to attempt at levity too. "In the meantime it inconveniences your King to be here."_

 _Legolas almost laughed when, as if on cue, the curtains parted and the King's personal guard brought in a chair for Thranduil to sit upon beside the Prince's bed. He settled down upon it languidly._

 _"_ _You command any room you happen to be in, father," Legolas said. "I cannot quite feel sorry for you."_

 _Thranduil hissed at him disapprovingly, before calling for his guards again and giving them quiet orders Legolas did not quite catch as he let his weary mind drift._

 _"_ _You needn't stay," he told his father in a sleepy murmur._

 _"_ _I have work to catch up on and no one will bother me here," Thranduil said easily. His guards brought him a sheaf of papers and he shuffled them in his hands and robes as he settled in his seat. To Legolas' eye, Thranduil's very presence really did make the simple chair start to look like a throne._

 _"_ _Your report has given me much cause for concern," Thranduil said. "That you should believe our foes have become strategic enough to begin targeting our supply lines is… unexpected."_

 _"_ _Their approach was not in mindless hate or hunger or violence," Legolas said with a shaky inhale. His chest rose, but he couldn't quite seem to get enough air. He shifted his position and pushed himself to sit up higher. "I have cause to believe they were well-prepared for us. They were unlike any orcs I've fought before, father. There was a greater intelligence driving them. A larger plan. I think we also escaped alive because… because they were testing us."_

 _Thranduil pressed his lips together grimly. "Testing?"_

 _"_ _Simple bloodlust could have driven them to kill us all no matter the cost to their own numbers," Legolas went on. He started rubbing his chest to ease a dull ache there. His bandaged hands made a soft, scratching sound on the fabric of his sleeping robes. "But they did not let it consume them. There was a goal, there was a sense of organization and control. There was strategic retreat. It almost felt like a new enemy."_

 _The Elven king sighed. "I trust your judgment, Legolas. Only a warrior of your quality would have such an observant eye. Trust you too, however, to find trouble in the Quartermaster's offices of all places."_

 _Legolas licked his lips and began to say something else, except he was cut off by a fit of coughing that doubled him over. He gasped to regain control of his body, and straightened to find his father watching him with displeasure._

 _"_ _I was told your injuries were not serious."_

 _"_ _They're not," Legolas insisted, lifting up his bandaged arms. "It is pretty much as you see them. Light hits, minor scratches. Perhaps I am just weary. We've not slept in days."_

 _Thranduil's brows rose in surprise._

 _"_ _There were things that needed doing quickly," Legolas gasped out. The lack of air was dizzying and he shifted positions again. He found comfort lying slightly curled on his side, facing his father because one never showed one's back to one's King._

 _"_ _Well the only thing that needs doing now is sleep," Thranduil said. "Rest, Legolas. Your work is well done."_

 _The elf prince let his eyes slip close..._

 _...only to be commanded awake seemingly just a moment later._

 _"_ _Breathe, Thranduilion!"_

 _The voice was distant and unfamiliar, and was quickly followed by a stinging sensation across his face. It –_ a slap?!- _dragged him back from the depths of cold, dark sleep. He struggled to open his eyes, and he squinted at sudden, blinding light. He gasped in surprise, and shut his eyes and turned his head away from it meekly._

 _"_ _No, no Legolas," the same voice – the healer Maenor's, he realized - told him firmly. "Open your eyes, my prince. Open your eyes."_

 _"_ _Open your eyes!" the King bellowed suddenly, and Legolas perforce followed. He opened one and then the other, and let his gaze drift to the King, who was standing before his abandoned seat, now thrown against its side on the ground amidst a wild collection of official papers. Legolas frowned in confusion at what he may have missed. His vision began to tunnel and the sounds started to become more distant again._

 _"_ _Breathe," the King said in a lower voice, almost spitefully. He sounded on edge. Dangerous. Legolas' eyes widened, and he followed as commanded._

 _The breath he took surprised him. It was a great inhale, open-mouthed and strained, lifting his back up from the bed and curving his body into an arc. He gasped at the air and suddenly felt as if he couldn't get enough. He drank it in hungrily. His vision and hearing cleared._

 _Unknown hands turned him to his side – back to the King to his great annoyance – and pounded on his back. He coughed out stale air until he doubled over, but more or less quickly returned to his senses._

 _"_ Ada _…?" he called out in confusion, straining his neck to catch sight of his father. Thranduil heeded his call and edged to his line of sight. The King looked pale and stricken._

 _"_ _I was told the injuries were minor," Thranduil said distastefully, "yet I lift my head from work to find him all but blue and without breath in his body."_

 _Legolas brows furrowed in confusion. That couldn't be! He was merely exhausted and sleeping._

 _"_ _I cannot explain it," Maenor said tersely as he continued pounding on Legolas' back. "He was thoroughly checked and his injuries found minor, my King, and there were no indications for any known poisons. Besides, all others who have been injured do not display—"_

 _A commotion from outside caught the healer's attention and cut off his words, and an apprentice popped her head into Legolas' curtained space to ask for urgent help._

 _"_ _Go," Legolas gasped at the elf tending him, with an insistent push. Maenor resisted and Legolas pushed harder. "Maenor, I am well enough for now. Go!"_

 _Thranduil opened his mouth to contest this, but abandoned his intent when Legolas reached for him and his father's heart compelled him forward. He gripped Legolas by the arms and helped him sit up as Maenor ran off to address the unknown emergency. Once convinced that his son wasn't going to tip over, Thranduil perched beside Legolas' hip and looked at him searchingly._

 _"_ _How long... have I... been asleep?" Legolas managed between gasps. He felt winded, as if he'd been running. Thranduil looked at him strangely as if he found the question odd, but to Legolas it was a fair one for, did he not fall asleep to calm and quiet but woke to chaos and confusion?_

 _"_ _You've barely slept," Thranduil told him. "I watched you drift before lowering my eyes to work. I don't know how long it took me to realize there was oppressive silence. When I looked back at you, your eyes were closed and you've ceased breathing. I pressed my hands to your chest and there was nothing. I called but you did not respond. The healer said your heart was still beating, but they had to pound and yell at you until you took breath again."_

 _Legolas' brows raised in surprise, and he felt at his chest as if to find some unnoticed injury, something that would explain how he nearly died. He was exhausted from overwork, achy and sore from battle and days of hard riding, but there was nothing to indicate a lethal disorder in his body. The only thing he found odd was that he was feeling dizzied and winded, and he could feel every breath he made. He felt conscious of every breath he took. He breathed in and out, experimentally. Other than that the effort tired him, he felt nothing broken or painful inside._

 _His father reached for his face gently, and pushed aside a lock of his tangled hair. "You've regained some color,_ ion-nin _."_

 _Legolas looked at Thranduil and held the royal's piercing gaze with his own. He had nothing to say, no explanation to give, barely any decent breath to speak it with._

 _"_ _I've not been afraid in a long time," Thranduil said quietly, and it made Legolas' heart tighten for reasons other than physical hurt. The King masked his own pain quickly by saying, "Where is that fool of a healer?"_

 _Legolas started to slump, and he looked glumly at the mess of papers his father had left on the ground. "I've... derailed...your work."_

 _Thranduil scoffed at the mess. "Trifling things."_

 _It was hardly ever the case, but Legolas took it in stride. The-King-his-father could always be trusted with knowing his priorities when it comes to juggling his responsibilities to the Realm and to his child. Legolas, for instance, had always been able to tell the seriousness of his injuries based on whether or not his father was there when he woke. There were many times he'd woken alone and would not see the King until he was on his two feet, and other times when he'd wake to find Thranduil keeping a quiet, working vigil. They were a people at war, and Legolas always understood he had to share his father with a Kingdom. But it also meant he couldn't deny the King his fatherly right of wanting to stay near, in the rare instances when Legolas' situation had been so dire as to require it._

 _Thranduil held Legolas' limp, bandaged hands in his and raised them up to his face with mounting panic. The tips of the younger elf's fingers were tinged blue, an indication of poor movement of air in the body. Legolas looked at them with a milder concern. He was growing too weary to care too much._

 _"_ _The healers will return with answers," he said to his father quietly. He made an inhale and an exhale, and marveled at how so small a thing seemed so difficult when one was exhausted when on any other day, he barely thought of it at all. He let his mind wander again –_

 _"_ _My lord, breathe!"_

 _"_ _Legolas, please."_

 _He jerked awake at the sound of his name and gasped. The hard inhale had him coughing again, and he opened his eyes –_ he had shut them? _– to find himself still seated up against the headboard but now with Maenor's –_ when did he return? _– anxious face hovering over him. His father he found causing a minor ruckus in the foreground. Thranduil's eyes were aflame and his mouth was moving, but Legolas could hear no sound over the rushing in his ears._

 _When he gathered enough breath and sense, the rushing faded away and sight and sound started to crystallize and clarify._

 _"_ _What ails them?" Thranduil was demanding to know._

 _Legolas worked his throat and croaked out, "There… are… others?"_

 _"_ _I think it's a poison we've not encountered before," the healer explained. "There can be no other explanation for the breathing difficulties hounding those that have even the slightest cut or hurt from this recent attack. We very nearly lost one of your men just now, my prince. But he is revived, same as you."_

 _"_ _Revived?" Thranduil bellowed. "Is this what you call it? That every time my son drifts for rest he ceases breathing?"_

 _The healer bit his lip in thought. "It is a most cruel, deceptive poison, my lord. I think it causes depression of unconscious breathing. A subtle symptom one might overlook. That is, until one sleeps, fails to compel breath into the body, and then slips quietly away. By morning we would have found all those whom we've sent to simple rest dead in their beds."_

 _"_ _Perhaps," Legolas shuddered, "perhaps it was… also why… our foes were willing to make a retreat. We were dead, walking."_

 _The Prince took a deep, careful inhale and released it slowly. He realized the poison was why he was beyond tired – it took conscious effort to make every single breath he's had since he was injured at the ambush._

 _"_ _What can be done?" Thranduil asked tightly._

 _"_ _This is new ground for us, my King," said the healer nervously. "Fashioning an antidote could take as little as a few hours or as long as days, if we succeed at all. In the meantime, as long as those afflicted can stay awake and compel their bodies to breathe..."_

 _Legolas rubbed at his eyes tiredly but found energy to laugh spitefully at that. He hadn't slept properly in days. He was weary to the bone and his eyes kept closing beyond his control, he expected his comrades to be on the same situation, and yet the healer could prescribe nothing other than for the whole lot of them to stay awake and breathe._

 _The healer, though slightly bothered by the prince's unconventional reaction, continued on, "... I do not expect them to encounter more immediate danger. If they stay awake long enough, they may even outlast the effects and not require the cure."_

 _Maenor thereafter went about his work, drawing blood from the prince's forearm and scurrying away to try and fashion an antidote. Thranduil's eyes never left his son's, and he gripped Legolas' hands when he came forward and sat beside him._

 _"_ _I know you are tired, Legolas," the King said softly. "I know sleep beckons, and a rest much deserved. But there is something you must remember. Every breath you make from here is a decision where you can stop, or you can keep going. Every breath is a choice, Legolas, where if you stopped and eased your suffering – you will assuredly begin mine. Stay awake,_ ion-nin _, and breathe with your father."_

 _"_ _I used to," Legolas rasped out, "when I was child."_

 _"_ _What do you mean?"_

 _"_ _In the times you let_ _me stay in bed with you," Legolas explained. "I tried... to match my breaths... with yours."_

Yes, he's had days like this before. The day that never ends. The day when the most minute things required effort and conscious choice. Breath by agonizing breath he had survived that misadventure, blink by every eye blink he'd fought to stay awake. It had been nightmarish, how long the hours felt and how, in spite of his best efforts, he would still nod off and require being prodded awake and jolted back into gasping life. Eventually someone had thought to give him and the other afflicted elves a dose of the Quartermaster division's stimulant of choice to keep them awake - the very herb he was using to this day. Like Aragorn, the healers of Mirkwood had frowned upon the jarring energy it created, but when the alternative was sleep and afterwards death, it was an easy choice to make.

The distinct taste of the mixture always brought Legolas back to those distant days. It was a lifetime ago - many breaths and blinks and steps separate now and then - yet taste and smell could bring these memories back within easy reach.

 _I survived that_ , he thought. _I can survive this_.

The pain around his side and extending to his back had him breathing hard and breaking into a cold sweat, but the oppressive sun overhead did little to warm him. If anything, its glare was one more burden he had to bear, and he squinted against it. He could feel his face worked up in hard lines – flaring nose, furrowed brows, set jaws. His nerves felt oversensitive and on edge, but his lips were numb, as were his hands and feet. These were the only sensations he was immune to. Everything else he felt minutely.

His pain, yes, but also the senses he had cast out to feel the presence of those who sought to harm them. His discomfort was only one part of the picture in his mind's eye, of their way forward to Lothlorien. He extended himself hungrily. He'd meant what he said, when he told Aragorn the earth was shaking. Their foes were never too far behind.

When his hearing began to sound muffled and his vision started to soften at the edges, he chewed hard on another fresh pinch of the bitter, mildly-metallic, earthy leaves that have so far been keeping him on his feet. In moments his heart pounded harder and he felt his eyes go wide as saucers. His vision sharpened, and he moved forward.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. Chapter 3: Something Left

**Title** : Walking Wounded

 **Summary** : Danger does not stop for grief or injury. For Legolas, there is no rest, respite, or relief on the seemingly endless road between Moria and Lothlorien. He, with the Fellowship he has sworn to serve, has no choice but to move forward, hurting and heartbroken.

 **The Story So Far:** Less than a day's walk away to the refuge of Lorien coming from the darkness and pain of Moria, but Legolas is really beginning to struggle in ways he can no longer keep from the other members of the Fellowship.

 _hi gang!_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, discussed - or anything else that these modern new fanfiction . net features allow people to do - the second chapter of "Walking Wounded." I am particularly grateful for reviews, especially those who have been sending their well wishes in every new installment. Shout out to: Alanic, White1stteal, Cling0514, Raider-K, Lydwina Marie, She-Elf23 and MissCallaLilly. Your attention and kindness is making this story move forward, thank you!_

 _I hope everyone enjoys this new chapter. It's going to be a bit of a harder read; I like doing 'the medium is the message' sometimes, so I cut into and out of time in a more confusing way here, to mirror the protagonist's growing disorientation. I hope it works out. Either way, I thank you for your time and as always, constructive comments and criticism are welcome!_

*NOTE: _Uploaded this chapter again with a minor change; couldn't quite stand keeping out a line I forgot to type in, or correcting an error I spotted. Other than that, if you've read this chapter previously, no change really. Hope this does not inconvenience anyone :)_

* * *

Chapter Three: Something Left

* * *

 _Why in all of Arda are we still walking_?

They have been on their feet and moving for endless hours, and yet they still have not reached their destination. Their stops were few and far between, for a quick sit or a drink of water, both of which have lost their appeal on Legolas.

"You are not resting," Aragorn observed during one such stop.

Legolas ignored the question and kept his feet. The truth was, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to get back up if he sat down. He chewed on more of the ground, leafy stimulants that have been keeping him alert, and he glumly noted there was precious little left. He wondered if the hobbits or even the dwarf carried something similar and equally potent. They did, after all, indulge in the occasional unsavory vice.

"You are also not drinking," Aragorn pointed out after he called for the company to resume their endless walking. The man had settled at a quick pace beside the elf at the head of the line. Aragorn, Legolas noticed, had crept closer and closer to him along the length of their journey and had not left his side since night began to fall.

"It makes me feel ill," Legolas confessed.

"You still need it."

"We are nearing our refuge," the elf said decisively.

"You still need it," Aragorn insisted, "you can take a little."

The elf didn't believe so. His last sips from earlier in the day had barely stayed in his stomach, and he feared very much what throwing it up would do to his burning chest and side.

"Speaking of this tires me," he told the _adan_ , and it was a shameless way out of the conversation but an effective one nonetheless.

Aragorn grimaced at him but said nothing else, and they kept walking.

# # #

The skies were bright and clear, but the night was brutally cold in the open space they traversed. It was the quickest way to the Golden Wood.

The elf should have been immune but he held his shivering body close, futilely. If the posture offered any relief he could not really tell. He'd dropped some of his energy-sapping, face-saving efforts at looking hale for their younger companions long ago, not that the hobbits seemed capable of noticing anything at this point. They were exhausted too, walking half-asleep and moving forward by sheer force of will and by leaning on each other. They've long since fallen silent.

Legolas was not doing much better himself, but had re-focused his waning energy on his elven senses, rather than keeping up an image of strength. He walked onwards as if possessed; he had ceased to become a being, but was rather simply a conduit for the movements of the Earth – what could he see, what could he hear, what could he sense...

He stumbled forward, caught himself by his palms and pushed up from the ground, walking again. Beside him he felt the _adan_ stiffen and shift, but he recovered quickly without needing the other's assistance. Neither Aragorn nor any of their other companions said anything, even as the false footing would have been clearly seen by those behind them. They all kept walking.

Before them was a large expanse of plains, and just beyond it, their refuge of glorious trees. Legolas blinked and suddenly the trees were closer. He blinked again and they were farther. He blinked and they were close again, and he blinked and they were far again.

Legolas frowned, and wondered if the Lady's enchantments would extend to him, even if he too were elven kind. It took him a moment to realize his eyes were playing tricks on him, and that his weary, injured body was mistaking today for some other day, when his sense of desperate determination was similar.

In one blink the Golden Wood was in sight. In the next, the trees of his vision grew closer and richer and thicker and darker – he was in the edges of home, of Mirkwood. In one blink he needed to get to the Golden Wood. In the next, he knew he had to get to his father's stronghold.

Blink by blink his sight wavered between past and present, between current struggles and painful memories, his current misery having dragged out a near-forgotten past that in turn encroached into the immediate now, each one bleeding into the other.

He fell to the ground and his eyes slipped closed -

 _\- He opened his eyes and he was in the healing wards of his father's halls. He knew it by the plain walls and ceiling, yet he was covered in the more comfortable beddings of his own suites. It was usually an indication that he'd been in the ward for a while, but he knew not for how long. He took stock of himself. His ears felt stuffed, his vision was blurry, and he felt a strange detachment to his body. His head pounded, dully, and his mouth was dry and stomach empty. He turned his head to find Maenor, the head of the healing wards, sitting beside him and looking at him thoughtfully. He swallowed thickly and licked his lips, but the healer beat him to speaking._

 _"_ _Do you know why you're here, my lord?"_

 _Legolas let his hands drift up to his chest. "I'd taken an injury," he rasped out, "here." He patted at his bedclothes over his heart, where he expected bandages to be. It was surprisingly flat and free._

 _Maenor's lips thinned before he said, grimly, "That was a year ago, Prince Legolas. Please, try to remember. We've spoken of this before. Do you remember why you're here?"_

 _Legolas frowned and closed his eyes, but there was nothing. He wracked his mind for some memory, something, anything that would explain his current predicament._

 _"_ _An injury here," he said, this time of his side. He opened his eyes to find Maenor had rolled his eyes in consternation._

 _"_ _Unfortunately that is as good a guess as any," the healer muttered, "as frequently as you are here."_

 _"_ _I don't understand," Legolas admitted. His head was starting to pound and his vision spin, and he felt sick to his stomach. He closed his eyes again, tight, and brought a fist up to his mouth._

 _The healer rubbed at his back reassuringly. "You'd taken a grievous injury to the head, my lord. Some memories, especially those around the incident, may be elusive for a while if not gone altogether. But you are home, you are safe, and you are healing."_

 _Legolas strained to remember, and as if his body was fighting to remember too, he started to tremble, and then shake, more violently. He grunted in surprise and dismay, before the world fell away -_

\- He opened his eyes. His cheek was pressed against rough, uneven ground. Pairs of boots surrounded his vision.

"Come now, laddie," came the deep, teasing voice of one Gimli the Dwarf, whose mere presence quickly reminded Legolas of where he was and what he was doing there. "Don't tell me the fabled endurance of an elf is below that of a lowly dwarf's."

"Gimli—" Aragorn began to say, but Legolas' hand upon the man's ankle shushed him quickly. Legolas squeezed, hoping to tell Aragorn he knew the dwarf was only trying to get him to rise, rather than give him any real grief. Well, maybe just a little grief.

Aragorn lowered his head to the elf's face. "We have to go on, _mellon-nin_ ," he said softly.

"I know," Legolas murmured. He would tell them to get moving and leave him, but he knew that suggestion would come to nothing, so he had to get up. He _had_ to get up. He simply _had_ to.

He took a breath and steeled himself, and was about to push up when he heard traces of a mumbled, thundering sound from the ground. Instead of rising, he pressed his ear even closer to the earth.

"Aragorn," he said, and jerked the human down to his level by his sleeves. The man hesitated and wondered if the elf was far gone, but Legolas pulled at him insistently. "Aragorn, listen."

The man was a good tracker too, and he pressed his ear to the ground next to the elf's.

"What madness is this?" Boromir over them inquired.

"That elf is contagious, is what," Gimli grumbled. Aragorn shushed them, and his eyes widened when he came to the same realization Legolas had. He pushed himself up to his feet quickly and strained his eyes in the direction of Lothlorien. Beside him, Legolas managed to rise up to his hands and knees only, but more or less did the same.

"What are we looking for, elf?" Gimli asked.

"I see nothing yet," Aragorn murmured.

"The enemy approaches now from two fronts," Legolas said in a low voice, and hated how it trembled at the edges from pain, cold, exhaustion and inescapably, fear. His companions fared little better. In spite of his gamely taunts, Gimli's face was lined by weariness too, and Boromir looked properly alarmed. Still, Legolas heard the soft clinks of armor and weaponry as the warriors stood up straighter by fighting instinct, in spite of the exhaustion plaguing all of them and the new danger afoot.

"How?" the warrior from Gondor demanded.

"The one we evade from behind us," Legolas replied, "and a sizeable party in front." The elf lifted his hands up in explanation, and grimaced both in discomfort as well as the gravity of his news. "This is the territory of the Golden Wood," he explained, forming an imagined shape of Lothlorien. "The enemy comes from the East beyond it, but will not go through the forest for fear of its enchantments."

"They will go around," Boromir concluded.

"That is what I think they are doing now," Legolas confirmed. "They move north to evade the forest. We, on the other hand, are headed to the refuge by quickest route, straight forward. But when the orcs make a turn from evading the bounds of Lothlorien, they will come from the northwest and we will be spotted here on open ground."

"They will move faster once they see us," Boromir said, "they will hunger for us. And they will cut us off from reaching Lorien."

"Do you think they are hunting us?" Aragorn asked.

"By the sound of their movement they are not in pursuit or specific rush," Legolas said. "I do not think they seek us. But if they continue on this way and we continue thus, they will find us whether they mean to or not."

"Can we not change the direction by which we move?" Gimli asked, "Find a path with cover?"

Legolas shook his head. "If we deviate from this straight path, it will take time enough so that the enemy behind us will catch up to us."

"Is the only choice then between being overtaken from the back or the front?" demanded Gimli. "I refuse to believe it."

"If we go faster we have a chance," Legolas said, even as he wondered how it could be possible. He looked at Aragorn, whom he knew from past experience as being able to engineer the improbable. "I think we've sensed them early enough that if we go quickly, we can slip into the territory of Galadriel just before the orcs make the turn west and we fall in their sightline. We will have the cover of trees and the protection of the Lady's enchantments. We can just make it."

Aragorn had a fist by his mouth and his eyes were glinting in thought and planning.

"How much faster?" he asked the elf.

It was an unimaginably important question, with a complex answer that depended upon their pace thus far against the pace of the enemies behind them and that of the enemies about to appear in front of them, information which in turn depended on Legolas' admittedly waning senses and consequent estimations. The answer would also depend on what the Fellowship was currently capable of given their bedraggled state, and Legolas knew by the strain on his own body and by looking at his companions that they had precious few reserves left.

"A mad run from here to Lorien will give us time to spare," he said tentatively. "But that is not… sustainable. We will lose more time if we collapse along the road."

Aragorn nodded in understanding. "Twice the walking pace broken by a jog, and then twice the walking pace again for respite, followed by a furious dash to the end?"

"Aye," Legolas agreed, "That should carry us through."

 _Barely_ , he thought, but he had a firm belief that the proximity of their destination coupled with the desperation of their cause would give them much motivation toward the final leg of the journey and should overpower their exhaustion.

"We may have to carry the halflings at some point," Boromir said, and winced at the sight of Legolas looking as if he was barely holding his body together. "Perhaps we can make plans to this end now, rather than later."

"You must take charge of the Ringbearer, Aragorn," Gimli said.

"I can take Sam," said Boromir, and with the hobbit gardener's fuller figure and the Gondor soldier's considerable bulk, it was the logical choice.

"The elf and I can each have one of the sprightly two," Gimli concluded. "They are fast runners and can be dragged forward where we are unable to carry."

Legolas almost bit out that he could certainly carry a hobbit, unburdened was he by a dwarf's limited height. But his injury was plain for them all to see by now, and he took Gimli's wise plan in stride.

"There are also some things we have to make clear," Legolas said, and his voice shook in earnest now.

"We cannot stop," Gimli said grimly.

"And if someone falls when our enemies draw near," Boromir adds, "we cannot turn back."

Aragorn stared at the hobbits for a long moment. The little ones were crouched quietly among themselves and looking worriedly upon the four warriors holding their fates.

"We must lighten our loads," he determined. "Speed is of the essence. And we must discuss this with the halflings. They need to know what's at stake."

Legolas kept his seat on the ground and regained some strength while Aragorn briefed the hobbits on the situation and the company shuffled about, keeping only what was essential and distributing the weight of the indispensable items amongst themselves.

Before long, they were rising again and each warrior tasked with a hobbit beside him, then moved forward half-running.

Legolas walked a fast pace alongside Merry, with Aragorn and Frodo beside them. Behind them were Gimli and Pippin, and Boromir with Sam. They moved quickly and quietly, wasting no breath for chatter.

Legolas knew he was slowing when Merry began to overtake his wider strides. The hobbit adjusted, and nearly collided with the admittedly rather fast Pippin behind him.

Legolas redoubled his efforts and for a long moment, the group kept a good and steady pace. But before long he was breathless and dizzying. He made a misstep to the side and nearly stumbled at the correction forward.

Merry, perhaps the most perceptive of the hobbits in spite of his propensity for getting into trouble with Pippin, looked up at him worriedly.

"Legolas?"

"Keep moving, Merry," Legolas told him quietly.

The walked thus for long hours that escaped Legolas' counting, but the skies were beginning to lighten when Aragorn called for a brief drinking pause. The elf understood with some dread that they were about to begin jogging now. He grimaced at what that could do to the injury that was now really dogging him.

As everyone took the time to partake of water, Aragorn came up beside him. "You need to drink, Legolas."

The elf shook his head vigorously. "You don't understand. If I get sick, I will lose more than what I'd taken in."

Aragorn sighed, and said, only for Legolas' hearing, "This cannot go on, my friend."

"It won't be too long now," Legolas promised.

 _One way or another_ , it was the truth.

# # #

They began to jog.

"Steady there, Peregrin Took," Legolas heard Gimli say from behind them. The hobbit had apparently gone a bit faster than a jog, and indeed, by Legolas' estimation, the pace of his running footfalls would not be sustainable for a long period of time, for a hobbit.

"Save some of that for later," the dwarf told him gently.

To Legolas' sharp ears, Pippin's steps adjusted. It was a good thought, to save some energy. Legolas wondered how much he had left to put away for later too.

 _I am near spent_ , he conceded to himself.

 _I might not reach safety_ , he thought, if experimentally. It made his eyes sting, but only for a moment. They all knew the risks in coming on this quest. Gandalf's loss only brought this fact to greater clarity. Anyone of them could pass into death.

 _If I can just get them to Lothlorien,_ he decided, _I will be ready to face whatever comes next_. _I will be ready_.

# # #

The sun rose in the horizon and Aragorn called for a pause.

Legolas more or less stumbled into it. His momentum carried him forward and he had no strength in his aching core to keep him up. His legs gave way and he fell crouched to his hands and knees on the ground.

His vision whited out for a long moment, and suddenly the senses that have been so attuned to his surroundings were shut off without warning. The world shrank – the sun and the skies and the ground and the distant woods and mountains, the smells and sounds, the company he kept, all vanished from his perceptions. Everything narrowed to the white hot pain at his side and back. The world and his cares shrank back to not even just himself – he could not even feel his arms or legs - but the suffering that consumed him. He imagined it as a ball of fire sitting inside his chest and belly, eating away at everything around it. He had ceased to exist, and everything beyond that core of pain was gone. He closed his eyes –

\- _He opened his eyes. He was in the healing wards again, and his body was on the tail-end of the violent trembling that has been plaguing him sporadically since the head injury he had suffered. At least he remembered things better now. The healers said the shaking was already shorter and less severe than when he was first brought in. They would vanish altogether in time._

 _He let his body still; the tremors literally involved the entirety of his being and were exhausting. He sighed contentedly when it ended, and his gaze drifted to the presence he had long felt sitting by his bed. He had thought it was Maenor, or any of the other elves who'd come and sat with him in the King's stead over the time Legolas had been confined there, but for the first time, he realized it was the Elvenking himself._

 _Legolas jerked in surprise and almost fought to sit up straight. He knew it was not the first time Thranduil had been beside him in vigil, but it was the first time he was aware enough to notice._

 _"_ _I thought I had sent you to your death," Thranduil said quietly. It was as much of an apology as Legolas was going to get from the King. The truth was, he_ had _sent Legolas to what was tantamount to a suicide mission, and returning alive was more a miracle than a guarantee._

 _"My only grief is that you had to carry that decision,_ adar."

 _His father had just pulled him from Quartermaster's duties and into the esteemed circles of his councilmen. The difference was jarring for Legolas, to come from humble handwork to the highest offices of the King. He stayed at Thranduil's right hand, and was expected to be well-read, conversant and wise on all aspects of running a Kingdom. He started seeing more of the large picture his father had wanted him to understand. There were daunting intelligence reports and war strategies, yes, but there were also interior and domestic issues to settle, which spanned the wide breadth of important trade deals and more banal property or business disputes and the occasional familial quarrels. The War went on, but people still ate and drank and fell in and out of love. The King, he realized, must be equipped with some enchantment to be able to think and decide and then shift topics and priorities so quickly. His own mind was in a constant state of motion, and there never seemed an end to papers to read and people to see and hear out._

 _A particular intelligence report, however, came to everyone's arrested attention above all else. An orc chieftain was on the rise near the Misty Mountains, Sithrur, said to be as terrible and fierce as the formidable named orcs to come before him._

 _Sithrur was a giant white orc known to ride a ferocious jet black warg, easy to spot in a sea of those he commanded. He had strategy and ambition, and had already called upon the hordes nearby to unite behind him. If these other ill forces were wise enough to heed his call, their numbers could overwhelm the elves of Mirkwood, if not their allies in neighboring lands as well._

 _"_ _Assassination," one of the councilmen had said spitefully, disbelieving. It was hardly a common approach to battling the orc. But if intelligence reports proved true, and Sithrur was as terrible and mighty as they claimed, a rally behind him could spell disaster._

 _"_ _To cut off the head of the beast," Thranduil murmured thoughtfully, "could scatter its mindless minions to the wind."_

 _"_ _A large army cannot win a direct confrontation at their homestead," another man councilman opined. "But a small stealth team may succeed in getting close enough to kill him."_

 _"_ _It's theoretically low-risk, my King," said another, "Sithrur is not known to have spawned an heir, or has a clever enough deputy to take his place. If we succeed in killing the singular chieftain of an orc host, then the reward significantly outweighs the potential loss of a small team."_

 _Legolas winced but this, he now understood to be part of his father's – and one day his – job: the weighing of life and loss against the gains of battle. As a warrior, he had long been willing to risk his life for a good cause. It was harder from this side, to be willing to order people to their deaths. It was a burden unimaginable, and yet borne so regularly and necessarily, and discussed so objectively here in his father's offices._

 _"_ _The host around him would be large," Thranduil murmured. "What hope could there be for his assassins to come close enough for success, much less safety afterwards? The risk in numbers would be small for a stealth team, but if we are to send our best... we may not get them back."_

 _"_ _Maybe we needn't come so close," said one of the war advisers, Brenion, a decorated hero whom Legolas had watched and admired as an elfling and would train under as a novice warrior later on. "But we would have to send out soldiers of a particular quality, my King. There are, after all, shots that only a handful of elves in all of Arda can make."_

 _Thranduil's eyes narrowed and his lips set in a thin line. He knew what Brenion was suggesting, they all did. The King steeled his expression to impassive again._

 _"_ _Assemble the group as you see fit, Brenion," said Thranduil._

 _The legendary elven warrior opened his mouth to say something else, but Thranduil cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Yes, yes, Legolas may come. But if you would let a father speak with his son first."_

 _With bows and muttered apologies, Brenion and the rest of Thranduil's councilmen excused themselves and hurriedly left him alone with the Prince. The great hall fell into silence as the rustle of their robes and murmur of conversations faded away with them._

 _"_ _I thank you for letting me help in this mission, my King," Legolas said quietly, formally, as their settings demanded._

 _Thranduil huffed out a breath. "As if that presumptuous Brenion had left me much of a choice, speaking of you in such terms before the others. 'There are shots only a handful of elves in all of Arda can make?' I know now where from you get this conceit of yours."_

 _"_ _I can only hope I am as good as he claims."_

 _Thranduil closed his eyes and sighed. When he reopened them, it was as if he were someone else, someone misplaced in the King's hall, a father only, not the father of a Kingdom. He grabbed one of Legolas' arms insistently._

 _"_ _I command you to return to me," he said, though he's never looked or sounded less kingly in that moment. In Legolas' eye, he was something entirely more common, and heartbreaking. He was a father._

 _Legolas was tempted to lie, but only for a moment. He respected his father too much. Besides, it could be their last one alone, or their last one, period._

 _"_ _It may not be in my power to follow-"_

 _"_ _Then find it," Thtranduil snapped. "Dredge it from whatever depths you can find. Remember who you are and where you're from. More than any other elven realm, Mirkwood demands everything out of everyone within it. We reach the end of our rope often, only to find there is always something left to tug and pull and gnaw on. There is always something left. You are the Prince of such a well-fought-for land and a people of much perseverance."_

 _The King had been right. Sithrur was dispatched by three arrow shafts: one through his head, eye and heart, right before the horrified horde that followed him. Two of these came from Legolas' bow. Many of Sithrur's followers fled in fear of a large elven attack that never came, while others went in disorganized pursuit of his assassins, who had scattered in the forest. Only one of them would return to Thranduil's stronghold alive._

 _"_ _Do you remember where they found you?" Thranduil asked, weeks later when Legolas was finally aware and on the mend in the healing wards. The younger elf strained, and pressed a hand to the side of his throbbing head._

 _"_ _Some details still escape me," he admitted._

 _"_ _You were badly injured," Thranduil recounted, "very much near death. You were no longer being pursued but the forest still held its regular dangers. I think you knew where you could be found, quickly, at that particular time." The King was offering him clues to jog his memory and help his recovery, and Legolas' eyes lit up in realization._

 _"_ _It was the Quartermaster who found me," he said, with some amazement. "I remembered the supply routes."_

 _"_ _It's odd, isn't it?" Thranduil murmured thoughtfully, "How somehow, all the things you've seen and done prepare you for a point in life when you need them most-"_

"Legolas, get up."

Aragorn's command broke through his misery and _memory_ , like a knife slicing through skin and bone and into his heart. The tone was firm and familiar. It had broken through to him before. Most recently, he had been standing on gray, rocky ground before a sudden expanse of sun and sky. He had escaped a darkness that had literally just laid claim to a lifelong friend.

Gandalf fell, and Aragorn had asked him to get the hobbits up. They needed to stand. They needed to get moving. They had to set their loss aside, make for safety, and continue doing their job.

Little by little, Legolas' world re-expanded. There was a trembling body beyond the injury. It was still alive and it was going to fight to the very end. Beyond the body was his company, and they needed him. Beyond their company was the larger Earth, which in turn needed them. Arda needed them, and it was oh so very large, dwarfing – yes, _dwarfing_ – his infinitesimal scruples.

 _It's just an injury_ , he told himself. He'd already pulled others up from crippling heartache and set his own aside. That – heartache- was harder wasn't it? This was nothing. After all, what was a little injury, in the face of the sworn duty they had to accomplish?

He regained awareness to find he was still on his hands and knees, and he realized his mental lapse had thankfully been quick. But the gasping breaths he could barely make were loud and clear enough for everyone to now know he was really struggling by now.

"Give him a moment, Strider," Merry said quietly. "He's hurt and he's about spent."

"Ah, Merry," Aragorn said, and Legolas felt himself being pulled up bodily, "Haven't you heard of these Mirkwood elves? There is always something left."

Aragorn sounded confident and jovial in repeating what Legolas had told him earlier in the journey, but Legolas gave him a sidelong glance and knew better. Aragorn was deadly serious, and calling upon Legolas' will and pride and promise with everything he could muster. The man hoisted the elf's arm over his shoulders. Legolas kept from recoiling only because it was a waste of both their strengths.

"Aragorn no," he protested instead, without much heat.

"We made good time," the man told him easily, bearing much of his weight as he began to walk forward quickly. "We are not so far behind that we can leave you to extended misery. Save your strength, _mellon-nin_. The Fellowship is in greater need of your sharp senses than your stubborn steps."

"For now," Legolas pointed out.

"Yes," Aragorn agreed. "Take rest while you can, my friend. As you know, only too soon we will need to run."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	4. Chapter 4: Sworn Duty

**Title** : Walking Wounded

 **Summary** : Danger does not stop for grief or injury. For Legolas, there is no rest, respite, or relief on the seemingly endless road between Moria and Lothlorien. He, with the Fellowship he has sworn to serve, has no choice but to move forward, hurting and heartbroken.

 **The Story So Far:** The elven refuge of Lorien is close, but so are the foes gaining on the Fellowship from behind and about to cut them off from the front. There is only one way to survive - not only can they not stop, they now have to push faster and harder with what little strength they have left.

 _hi gang!_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, discussed - or anything else that these modern new fanfiction . net features allow people to do - the third chapter of "Walking Wounded." We are now at_ _ **the final chapter**_ _of this fic, and I hope everyone enjoys the ending._

 _I thank you for your time and as always, constructive comments and criticism are welcome!_ _ **Please note, there will be an Afterword and a Bonus Mini-Fic**_ _following this chapter, so give it a read too and let me know what you think :)_

* * *

Chapter 4: Sworn Duty

* * *

Elves by nature were fairly light and while compliant, Legolas' heavy leaning upon Aragorn's shoulders barely slowed down the man's brisk walk. The elf welcomed the assistance far more than he cared to admit, and focused all his efforts on keeping track of their foes.

One foot in front of the other they went, until their goal was in the near distance - finally within clear sight.

"I can almost just reach for it," Legolas murmured.

Beside him, Aragorn snickered. "If only it were so easy."

They saved their breaths and continued forward, and Legolas did as instructed and rested however way he could. Mostly he stayed alert and kept his staggering steps clear of Aragorn's hungry, powerful strides.

 _Only too soon, we will need to run_ …

" _Daro_ ," Legolas said under his breath, and Aragorn was quick to follow the elf's bidding. The _adan_ lifted up his fist and the fellows behind them shuffled to a stop a beat later. He stepped away from Aragorn and the man, without hesitation, let him. The rest really had done him some good and he felt as refreshed and ready as he could be under the circumstances.

"The enemies are near," Legolas told his companions gravely, "but so are we. We need to start running."

"Frodo, to me," Aragorn commanded urgently, and the Ringbearer shuffled close, taking Legolas' place. Wordlessly, the other hobbits stood by their appointed warrior-escorts. Everyone's eyes looked aflame in the daylight, and Legolas felt a surge of strength go through him. The pain that had almost consumed him hours past and lingered on now shrank into a small, insignificant ball, buried deep.

 _I will get them to Lothlorien_.

 _I will get them to Lothlorien_.

Legolas took the last pinch of the stimulant he had been saving just for this occasion, and as before it made his heart beat quicker and all his senses sharper. That, coupled by his own will, made him stand taller.

"No matter what happens, Strider," Sam looked up at Aragorn earnestly, "Frodo reaches safety."

"The Ring cannot fall into the wrong hands," Legolas added. "Only forward, Aragorn. No going back."

 _Especially not for me_.

Aragorn's eyes met his, and clearly understood what was unspoken. In Legolas' native tongue the man asked, "You ask it of me, but can you do it?"

 _It was his constant failing._

 _He had few weaknesses as a warrior but this was particularly glaring - he couldn't leave a comrade behind. He wouldn't follow such an order, and wouldn't order it done – he'd place himself in danger first and do the saving himself if he had to._

 _In a war-ravaged society as that of Mirkwood, where order and chain of command were all but sacred, the weakness earned him the ire of many a commander but the loyalty of those he aided. Other than the latter he was otherwise unrewarded. He'd been repeatedly injured. He'd been demoted once, which was a fine if deserved sting on his pride. Other punishments came and went – multiple deserved public scolding, formal disciplinary inquiries, restricted night guard duties, menial work, a night or two here and there confined to quarters (spared from the brig by his father's councilors, though Thranduil himself was most eager to put his son behind bars_ for his own good _)..._

 _This particular weakness became part of his legend, and more or less the same narrative would trail him from his time as a warrior to his short stint as a healer retrieving the most precariously located injured soldiers right up to his time with the Quartermaster's office. His peers had joked, if there was someone to save from the King's temper in his father's close counsel – trust Thranduilion to spare him. Legolas bore the punishments, rebukes and joshing reasonably well, until the time came that his actions got someone killed._

 _Legolas was restored to warrior's duties upon his father's reasonable satisfaction over his expanded education in the facets of running a Kingdom. The story began as it always did - a soldier fell behind, lost to the hordes if not for Legolas' defiance of a direct order for immediate retreat. The Prince saved the elf, which would have been how his other misadventures ended except this time, he too fell into mortal danger. The elves Rador and Bronon came forward to aid him and lost their own lives in the process. Legolas' actions saved one life but cost two elves theirs._

 _He made his report to his father formally, and prepared himself for grave punishment much deserved. Was he to be imprisoned? Stripped of his rank or perhaps even his warrior's status altogether? Disinherited? Banished? Publicly castigated? But Thranduil received him in a manner calmer than he felt he had any right to expect, and had even sent out the councilmen for privacy._

 _"_ _I knew it was only a matter of time before we met here this way," Thranduil said, "speaking precisely of this matter."_

 _Legolas' eyes stung. He wished desperately that he had had that wisdom too. He wished he could take back time. He wished he could have just listened to his commanding officer and pulled back when he was instructed to. Now two elves are dead when there could have been just one._

 _"_ _I understand the severity of my actions," he said carefully, "and the gravity of its consequences. I accept full responsibility and I subject myself to the Realm's judgment. I seek the justice of the King for those who had died." He hungered for it. He almost ached to be punished._

 _"_ _You didn't even give it a moment's thought, did you?" Thranduil asked, "When you shot forward to aid that elf."_

 _"_ _I heard and understood the commanding officer's orders to leave the fallen," Legolas said. "I have no excuse."_

 _Thranduil let out a long, exasperated breath. "Ah, Legolas. Our lives here have been rough yes, but yours in particular has been kind in surprising ways too. You've never known retreat or defeat. You've never been wrong, and so what else were you supposed to learn?"_

 _Legolas' brows furrowed, confused as to where this was headed._

 _"_ _I cannot fault you for your daring," Thranduil expounded, "All too frequently you've defied orders and emerged correct and victorious. Countless soldiers continue to be among our ranks thanks to you, when we could have lost them long ago. What else were you supposed to learn, other than that maybe you had better judgment than those who commanded you? Other than that you alone can always somehow defy the odds. But as you can see... actions have consequences, and all too often not the ones we intend. Less often for you as your record has shown but clearly, – it happens."_

 _"_ _What should I have done?" Legolas asked, and his voice came out a hoarse whisper._

 _"_ _What could you have done?" Thranduil asked with a resigned sigh. "You acted only as you knew how – as if you could always win. You are your history, Legolas. You are also... just what you are. I know you barely gave it a thought when you came after an elf who would otherwise have been lost. You are what you are, not even the most rigid training can change that. The King_ _cannot change that, nor would I wish to. What I can do – what I have been doing - is change the environments within which you operate, and in this I am learning too. Rador and Bronon were seconded to your section but were primarily of the Royal Guard. Their main task was to look after you, and they died doing what they were supposed to."_

 _The revelation brought Legolas into a sputtering rage. "You've been deploying_ minders _for me?"_

 _"_ _Only recently," Thranduil admitted. "You've observed this yourself, Legolas. There is a greater intelligence, a larger plan at work driving our enemies in these trying times. The nature of the war is changing. Until we have better of knowledge of what we were going up against, the council saw it fit to issue you a protective detail. Your position can make you a valuable target."_

 _Legolas ran his hand over his face and head in frustration. "Why was I not told?"_

 _"_ _What difference would it have made?" asked Thranduil. "You are all soldiers. The same outcomes were needed, the same commands would have been issued, and the same orders followed or in your case – defied."_

 _"_ _I don't know,_ adar _," Legolas said, "If I had known they were tasked with my care I could have been more cautious. I could have made their jobs easier. Maybe. I don't know." He sighed and lowered his head. "Why would you tell me this now? Why?"_

 _"_ _Because you should know that they died doing their duty," Thranduil said. "They have that honor. You are here and safe, and free to make whatever good or bad choices or defeats or victories from this point forward, because of their work. Sometimes you will be right, other times you will be wrong. But they did their duty, so that you may continue to do yours. And the duty, the job – that is what is most necessary."_

 _"_ _So I am just to do what I am told?" Legolas asked dully, "to be a good soldier?"_

 _"_ _I said to do your duty, Legolas," Thranduil corrected gently, "I did not say you should do only as you are told. You aren't just a soldier,_ ion-nin _. As my son and a Prince of the Realm, that is your blessing and your curse. Do what you feel is right for the objectives you must accomplish. Sometimes you have to leave a soldier on the field and other times you get to pull them back. Sometimes you will get hurt and other times people will hurt for or even because of you. Sometimes you will be wrong and other times you will be right. That is the burden you must carry. But faithfulness to your duty will always be correct."_

 _It was how Thranduil could stand to lose soldiers while Legolas learned his lessons in running a Kingdom. It was how a father could stand to send his son out on a suicide mission. Pursuit of one's sworn duty will always be right._

 _"_ _Do what you feel is right," Thranduil said, "But never compromise the mission. And in this, I find – you have never failed."_

"Can you do it?" Aragorn asked again, insistently.

"It was my constant failing," Legolas admitted, "until Moria. Until… until Mithrandir. I let him fall, I had to, and his death has purchased for us our chance here."

Legolas had been on his bow, sending out shot after shot of covering fire for the Fellowship's escape. He wasn't very far from Gandalf at all, but if he had stopped and rushed forward to aid the fallen wizard, not a few of the arrows sent their way by orcs and goblins would have found a home of their bodies. The elf had done his job, just as Aragorn accomplished his by pushing everyone forward, and Gandalf did his own by holding the _balrog_ back.

"I would do it again," Legolas said determinedly. "I am relieved this burden falls on you, Aragorn and not me. I am sorry, but it must be done. It is almost simple – all you have to do is run and not look back. The Ringbearer comes before all else. I know you of all people can keep sight of our sworn duty."

"In the far lesser culture of the dwarves," Gimli said pointedly, "It is considered impolite to speak in tongues incomprehensible to others of the same company."

He and Aragorn were still speaking in the elf's tongue, Legolas realized, and it was on the tip of his tongue to retort something back when Aragorn recovered first.

"Peace, Master Dwarf," he said with a teasing grin, adjusting as requested. "I was merely telling the elf to try and keep up."

"Four words in Westron," said Gimli in theatrical shock, "'Try and keep up,' and the indulgent elven tongue can all but write a book on it."

Aragorn chuckled and Legolas managed to withhold the small smile the dwarf had somehow wrung from his lips. They all just had to do what they all had to do.

Quietly, they all gathered their strengths and shook their limbs loose and stretched.

"Remember my friend," Aragorn told Legolas as they braced to run. They spoke in Westron, over Frodo's and Merry's heads. "You said it yourself – for your people, there is always something left somehow. And I know, you are among the best of them."

Legolas gave him a short nod.

And off they all went.

# # #

The hard run was difficult to sustain for everybody, more so for the hobbits. Not long after they began, Aragorn at the head of the line had to scoop up a faltering Ringbearer. He barely broke stride, and Legolas almost grinned proudly as he watched from slightly behind. Boromir and Sam soon followed suit sprinting past, while Gimli and Legolas had to pull and press forward Merry and Pippin whenever they lagged behind from the rear.

Legolas knew the exact moment that the others heard what he had been sensing for hours now - the thundering footfalls of dozens of their massed enemies from the northwest - when the company lost all regard for careful steps and stealth, and they ran forward blindly toward the boundaries of Galadriel's forest, marked by the looming golden trees.

They were so unbearably, achingly near.

Legolas' estimations had been right. He knew without a shadow of a doubt now, that the Ringbearer currently sheltered in Aragorn's arms, at the very least, was going to reach safety whether or not the rest of them did.

The thought gave him relief, but also an inexplicable weakness. His duty was almost accomplished. He shook the thought away, but it had already ushered in a tremble to his movements, and he realized he could barely breathe. He huffed what air he could find, in and out of his mouth, drying his throat all the more and irritating it enough for him to cough. The involuntary movement had his chest muscles tightening, and aggravating his remembered injury. It burned, and he coughed harder. And it ached more, and he coughed more. He doubled over but kept running.

His hands and feet operated outside of his conscious misery. He kept moving forward, and kept tugging at Merry and urging him on. He'd been right in this too, that adrenaline and desperation could take most of them across the final few steps to safety. They were almost there. They were really, really almost there...

Merry stumbled forward and Legolas pulled him up. They did not stop moving. They could not stop moving.

 _So close_ , Legolas thought. The trees were becoming larger and larger in his field of vision.

Behind him, he heard a muffled sound of falling and tangled limbs. Against his own advice of moving only forward but totally in keeping with his long history, he turned around and by instinct, ran back to where Pippin was on the ground tangled up with Gimli.

"Keep going!" he yelled to Merry as he dragged their companions up gracelessly and pressed them forward.

Gimli grunted a thanks hidden in some kind of curse about elves and hypocrisy. Legolas had no time to think it through. They started running again, losing bare moments.

Legolas found himself in the rear of the group, a position he did not often take given the use of his senses guiding them forward. In this instance he found he preferred it, seeing where everyone was. But he also knew he was slowing down, as every step took the closest person in front of him, Gimli, farther and farther away.

He grit his teeth and pressed forward. Never let it be said that a dwarf could outrun an elf! _Forward, forward, only forward_ …

Only forward. He watched as Aragorn and Frodo vanished into the woods, and he felt his heart swell in triumph.

Only forward. Boromir and Sam soon after followed them.

Only fo-

He mis-stepped, and with the hard run came a harder fall. The ground rushed up to meet him, and he rolled twice before coming to a complete stop, on his back and staring up at the clear skies.

 _The clear skies turned pitch black and he was back in the cover of Mirkwood's trees. There were some shots only a handful of elves in all of Arda can make, his father's general had said, and the moment Legolas released he knew Brenion had been thinking of something exactly like this. The arrow whistled its lethal little song as it sailed into the dark to find its way to the enemy's heart._

 _He fired off one more shot and turned around to retreat, already knowing both arrows would hit. He is rewarded by the sounds of surprise and anguish behind him. Now all that was left to do was run._

 _The assassination of Sithrur would push back the elves' doom for a little longer. All Legolas and the other lightly scattered, eagle-eyed archers had to do was avoid enemy engagement and make it to a rendezvous point. In failing that, they had to make their own way home._

 _Make your way home..._

 _A thick orc shaft whizzed by his head and he realized among Sithrur's followers had been at least one marksman too. He ducked and dodged, making himself a smaller and more dynamic target. It also slowed him down enough that a desperate, animalistic foe with vengeance and bloodlust could take advantage and catch up._

 _A figure burst from the foliage to his right, and he swung his knives at it and struck him down. Legolas broke stride only to hop over its wretched, fallen body. He'd barely landed when another orc dived at him, claws out, so blinded and hateful it did not even bother with a weapon. They landed in a foul tangle on the ground. This orc was almost pitifully easy to dispatch, but it had done enough to delay Legolas into facing another foe, this time someone more considered in his movements. This one engaged Legolas with a heavy, dirty, jagged broadsword._

 _Again, the creature was no match for the elven warrior. But the plain truth of things was that the orc did not need to be; they had bulk and numbers, and little regard for the survival of their kin. They threw themselves one after the other at the elves until they could gain ground by attrition._

 _Legolas had barely finished with the orc when another burst forth from between the trees, and his swinging club caught the elf right on the side of his head. The world burst. There were no other words for it. The world burst, and Legolas felt his head forcibly turn from right to left, and his body swing with the momentum of the blow, which was fully meant to kill. It was by sheer luck that his right arm still held his knife, and when he was hit, his fingers spasmed tightly against the hilt, such that when he turned before falling to the ground, the fine, sharp elven weapon cut across the orc's bare chest from waist to shoulder, killing it._

 _Legolas was not fully aware of the kill. He was unconscious before he hit the ground._

The skies brightened. Legolas realized he was still on that singularly infernal, eternal road between Moria and Lothlorien, and he was on his back looking up. He groaned and shifted, but with the impossible weight on his chest, the world shrank to nothingness again, and he retreated into himself for a small eternity, hovering on the edges of awareness and pain and danger-

 _Danger_!

 _Heavy footfalls by his head dragged him back to a painful awakening. He rolled to his stomach and was promptly ill. The blow to his head was throbbing and bleeding, and he knew not how long he was unconscious, but he had to get to his feet. He pushed his way up, drunkenly, getting sick again along the way again but managing to keep a semblance of standing. His enemies were coming. He readied his knives._

Heavy footfalls by his head dragged him back to a painful, _real! now!_ awakening. And by the gods, he was still on that singularly infernal, eternal road between Moria and Lothlorien wasn't he?

Legolas rolled to his stomach and was so dizzied he almost fell ill. He pushed up to his hands and knees and touched his head until he remembered it was a different day and a different injury, even if the enemy was the same and the pains similar.

Legolas reached for his knives as the footsteps came closer. Had he been unconscious for so long that their enemies have arrived?! He swung at the approaching foe.

"You have strength enough for that, you have strength to keep moving," the dwarf said, looking skeptically at the trembling knife pointed at his face.

Legolas growled at him disapprovingly. "What are you doing here?" the elf demanded, indignantly, "Only forward!"

"You said it to Aragorn," Gimli pointed out as he grabbed Legolas by the arm and started pulling, "he had the Ringbearer, not I."

Legolas growled at him, but did not shy from the dwarf's grip. From his position on the quaking ground, the sound and feel of the nearness of their foes had never been so immediate and he wanted to be away from there.

He pushed up while Gimli pulled. Ahead of them, Legolas saw Pippin and Merry enter the safety of the trees. Aragorn was settling them down to hide in the shade, and busied himself hiding their tracks and scent. Following that, Legolas knew what was coming next - that fool _adan_ would be coming over to get him up too, if he did not do it himself and start running.

"Move!" Gimli prodded him, and Legolas felt a surge of anger at all of them. At a _dwarf_ defying his instructions not to turn back and having the gall to issue him orders instead. At Aragorn about to spring forward in some harebrained rescue attempt. At himself for weakness.

 _An elf prince cannot even knock upon the doors of Mandos in peace, can he_?

He pounded on the ground in frustration but found the strength to push up and start running again.

His injured, swaying pace was almost a match for the slower, heavier dwarf's. They ran and stumbled and urged each other forward, alternately. Aragorn was waiting for them at the edge of the woods, barely able to keep his feet planted there, his fiery eyes raking around desperately for the presence of their foes. He reached out his arms to Legolas and Gimli.

The moment they were within reach, Aragorn pulled them by whatever means he could – for Legolas, the _adan_ caught cloak and pulled not a few golden strands of silken hair - and into the shadow of the trees. From Gimli's angry growl, Legolas deduced Aragorn may have tugged on a fistful of beard. Either way, the three fell in a heap on the ground.

Behind them, Legolas heard the thundering footsteps of their foes as the orcs made the turn from northwest of Lothlorien.

The elf hurriedly disentangled himself from Aragorn and Gimli and, on hands and knees, observed the movements of the despicable _yrch_. Like him, the rest of his company fell deathly still and silent as they crouched low in the trees.

It was a terrifying sight to behold, a large company of beasts by the dozens. They noisily turned and moved westward, growling at the boundaries of Lorien as they went, but eager to leave its nearness. They missed the concealed presence of the Fellowship completely.

None of the eight dared move or make a sound until their foes were out of hearing range and even then, they did so cautiously.

Legolas snickered to himself and coughed, which heralded an uncontrolled spasm in his lungs that left him gasping for air. He caught his breath dizzily, but felt warm blood trickling from his throat, through his teeth and down the corner of his mouth. He swiped at it angrily, but found energy for little else. He dropped to his rump on the ground, and looked up blearily as each of his companions rose to their feet. He caught Aragorn's worried gaze.

"An escape Mithrandir would be most proud of, I believe," the elf said quietly, with a small smile.

The reminder of their loss was acute, but Aragorn found it in himself to say, "He would have been especially invigorated by the close call."

"Aye," agreed Gimli, "And especially proud that we can set aside our differences, as was the case when I saved the life of the elf."

"I saved you first," Legolas pointed out, "so one can easily come to the conclusion that I ultimately saved myself."

"You did not save me!" Gimli snapped. "I was rising and I would have reached safety all on my own. You on the other hand, had your pointy-ears practically pressed upon the ground! You would have perished on that field without me!"

"And yet I am still perishing here," Legolas said wearily, "while you take your time making assertions you cannot prove."

"Perishing?" Aragorn asked, alarmed.

"I was just trying to be clever." Legolas sighed at his own thin, wavering voice. He found no inclination to rise from where he sat, looking up at his fellows.

"Now perhaps you would let me have a look at you," Aragorn determined. "And we can all catch our breaths."

"We will be found by patrols sooner or later—" Legolas said, attempting to put off the embarrassment of being tended in the open before their fellows. More pragmatically, he did not want to be insensate following what was could be an invasive healing procedure, before he could see everyone settled in the lair of the Lady Galadriel. Lothlorien was a refuge, yes, but their welcome was still uncertain given what they brought with them. As the lone elf and no less than a formidable King's son, they perhaps needed him to speak on their behalf.

"You will be seen to now," Aragorn said, booking no argument. To the others, he said, "If you could kindly give us room to work, my friends."

# # #

Aragorn and Legolas kept to where the elf sat, while the rest of the fellowship dispersed but stayed near. Near enough for Legolas to hear Gimli's slanderous warnings to the hobbits about the Lady Galadriel, whom the dwarf called a witch with dangerous enchantments. Legolas rolled his eyes, and Aragorn chuckled at him.

The man pressed his large hands against the sides of Legolas' face, and peered at him closely.

"Look at me," he murmured, and Legolas followed as instructed. Aragorn nodded to himself at some mysterious conclusion Legolas had no desire or energy to guess at.

His hands slid down to the elf's neck, where they stayed for a long moment while he mouthed a small, soundless count. He pressed his lips together into a grim line, and this time Legolas was compelled to say,

"You're making me nervous."

Aragorn grimaced. "I should have seen to you sooner."

"And yet we barely made it safely as it is," Legolas pointed out. He stifled a cough, and his chest spasmed again, hitching up and down shallowly. He felt as if he were breathing through a sieve. He reared up and kicked out, and dug his hands against the ground as he fought for air.

"Easy, easy," Aragorn murmured as he steadied Legolas with one hand to his chest and dug for something in his pack with the other. Leaves set in a paste he then shoved beneath the elf's tongue, past the mouth hung open in gasping breaths. Legolas' vision was tunneling, but whatever Aragorn had fed him slowly worked its way into his body and he felt his chest loosen up and his muscles begin to relax.

He took one clean breath in, and then another. He felt dizzied and drained, but no longer desperate. He opened his mouth to say his thanks, but Aragorn shushed him with a finger to his lips.

"Save your breath," he teased the elf, "and I wouldn't thank me just yet."

Legolas licked at his dry lips and nodded. His throat felt parched but he dared not drink just yet. He relaxed in the relief that he could more or less breathe again, and kept still as the man eased off his cloak and unfastened the straps that held his quiver. Aragorn also loosened his belt, and instead of removing his tunic and shirts, made the jagged rips upon them larger by cutting at them. Legolas sighed; it was a good tunic, and a beloved one. But he imagined the agony of having to remove the clothes over his head and slipping his arms past the sleeves, and appreciated Aragorn's foresight. Besides, with some time and rest, he was sure he would be able to mend it.

"You've been bleeding all this while?" Aragorn asked.

Legolas looked down at his side in surprise. The bandage he had hastily applied there was heavily stained in red.

"Must have been one of the falls," he rasped out. He cleared his throat, but it did not do much for strengthening his voice, which still came out feathery. "As I've said, I was really more worried about bruised lungs. On a lighter note..."

"At least I wouldn't have to peel off a crusted bandage," Aragorn finished for him, saving him more energy from wasteful speaking. "Never let it be said that you are a pessimist."

Legolas snorted at him.

Aragorn removed the bandage gently, and he had careful hands but the wound was bad enough that it still made the elf stiffen. Even the barest exposure to air felt as if it was burning his oversensitive nerves there, making his eyes water. He blinked aggressively against tears that had come unbidden. He jerked when Aragorn started to peel off his hastily-applied bandages, prompting the healer to again, press a palm against his chest.

"Easy there, Legolas."

His breaths came in hard and fast, and short and inadequate as the man prodded at his wound. It did no favors for his already damaged lungs. His vision tunneled again, but there was something keeping him from oblivion. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He felt his brows furrow in concentration at this nagging, nagging thing. There was something he had to say.

"Aragorn," he struggled, "remember our welcome here is not a guarantee. Times are difficult and elves have had to be more wary, even if we weren't bringing them great danger. You must think of contingencies if we are not allowed through."

Aragorn winced. "Aye, I am aware of that."

"If I am... if I should be," Legolas went on, "If I should be incapacitated when we are intercepted, use my name. Do you understand? Tell them I am Thranduilion, and the Elvenking will expect their assistance in my care. Make something up if you have to. Tell them something grave. It will buy us time."

Aragorn grinned at that as he worked. "Ah, Legolas. You really do find utility in everything."

The elf wracked his brain for something else, because saying what had been in his mind was not quite enough to ease him. What was it, nagging at the edges of his awareness? Was he sensing something odd...?

"Aragorn-!"

Legolas exclaimed the name as he shot to his feet and by instinct readied an arrow, aimed right at the face of another elf. He jumped slightly when a similar weapon was pointed by his head.

The Galadhrim seemed to come out of nowhere, and he wondered how much more quickly he would have sensed them if he hadn't been feeling ill, or if they really were near-undetectable and almost one with their forest.

Aragorn rose to his feet with arms raised over his head in surrender. Legolas' body trembled in exhaustion at the sudden movements he had made and the posture of holding a bow, and though he was loathe to lower his weapons while one was aimed at his face, he did so resignedly. What he did not expect was the numbness in his hands, or for the weapon not only be lowered to his sides, but dropped to the ground from seemingly nerveless fingers. He looked down at them in surprise.

The Marchwarden came forward then, trailed by a patrol of elves who had rounded up the rest of their bedraggled company. Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but could find no breath for words. His legs shook and folded beneath him.

Aragorn shot forward and caught him by the arms, lowering him to the ground slowly.

"All right, all right," Aragorn said to him gently, "Rest now, _mellon-nin_. I can take it from here."

The man deposited Legolas down to sit, but he was determined to have his say. "I am Thranduilion," he claimed, in the best imitation of his father. "I expect your aid."

The Marchwarden's brows rose in surprise, and so did Aragorn's.

"So you are," the Marchwarden said with a small bow.

Legolas swayed and more or less slipped against his side to the ground. All care for appearances was gone, and he finally let his miseries overwhelm him. He closed his eyes against strangers staring, and curled into himself until the ground fell away and he felt nothing except the most important thing – his duty was, for now, done.

THE END

February 22, 2018

* * *

AFTERWORD – The Method of the Madness

* * *

 **Table of Contents**

 **I. The Story**

A. The Original Version of "Walking Wounded"

B. Bringing in the Past

C. Lessons of the Past

 **II. The Characters**

A. Mirkwood as a Character

B. Thranduil

C. Legolas

 **III. Thank You's**

 **IV. A Bonus Mini-Fic: The Fetcher**

 _When Thranduil is injured, it is a given that Legolas would temporarily take over his duties as King. But the younger elf takes over an unexpected role too._


	5. Afterword and Bonus Fic: The Fetcher

_hi gang!_

 _If you had meant to read the ending of the fic and thought it was this one, then just return to Chapter 4: Sworn Duty, which is the conclusion to "Walking Wounded." Chapter 5 features my story notes in case it is of interest to the reader, and a bonus mini-fic (still long at several thousand words, lol) called "The Fetcher." Thanks and I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

AFTERWORD – The Method of the Madness

* * *

 **I. The Story**

A. The Original Version of "Walking Wounded"

B. Bringing in the Past

C. Lessons of the Past

 **II. The Characters**

A. Mirkwood as a Character

B. Thranduil

C. Legolas

 **III. Thank You's**

 **IV. A Bonus Mini-Fic: The Fetcher**

 _When Thranduil is injured, it is a given that Legolas would temporarily take over his duties as King. But the younger elf takes over an unexpected role too._

* * *

 **I. The Story**

 **A. The Original Version of "Walking Wounded"**

"Walking Wounded" started out as a simple, straightforward affair. One setting (the road between Moria and Lothlorien), one objective (to bring the ringbearer to safety), one major hardship (to overcome injury). There were no flashbacks, no lessons, no larger implications to Legolas' character. It was just a guy trying to get to a place of refuge and that was literally all.

The original story is now just a third of the length it is in right now, and was certainly more structurally elegant, haha. But even from the start I felt it was unfinished. Something was missing, and I wasn't sure what it was, until I asked the question – so where does Legolas find the strength and motivation to move forward?

I've illustrated how hard it was – I really tried to convey the day that never ends (with the fic that never ends, lol). I repeated scenes and descriptions here and there to create a sense of disorientation and claustrophobia. It comes out pretty jagged, but I really like having the medium be the message as much as I can, for the experience of reading to sort of mirror and illustrate the experience of the character.

At any rate, the question was that in spite of all that, what gets one foot in front of the other every single time?

 **B. Bringing in the Past**

That question was the key that started to change the flow of the tale. Legolas drew strength from the vast experience of his past as the Prince of a particularly battle-scarred realm. Once the idea of bringing in flashbacks came to me, that's when the plot bunnies really started to go crazy. And oh my gosh has anyone ever tried a random elf name generator? You'd want to make stories just to use them all, hahaha.

 **C. Lessons of the Past**

Once I'd made up my mind to get into memories, it was super fun to think about all the possible ways Legolas could have picked up valuable life lessons. "Walking Wounded," after all, is essentially a journey comprised of many single steps, just like all the past activities that brought Legolas to that point in time. Everything was important in forming his character and in sort of preparing him to survive his current predicament.

He'd always been shown as a great warrior so I wanted to move a little bit away from that because it was already a given (I barely even gave it a flashback). So what else would he need to know to survive, I wondered, and I thought it was logical for a fighting army to have some knowledge of healing and first aid, so the healing stint came up. How the heck sewing came into the picture escapes me now, but for those who wonder how sexy it is for men to be able to mend things… Google "Paul Newman sewing with cigarette" or "Paul Newman sewing with cat." Seriously. Abandon this Afterword and look at it.

Speaking of the Lessons, **What was Thranduil trying to accomplish when he sent Legolas out to them?** In chapter 2, Thranduil tells his son that "You will be needed for far more than your bow and knives." So in the healing wards he learns skills on top of fellow-feeling, patience and restraint; in the quartermaster's office he learns appreciation, resourcefulness and endurance; in the King's council he learns management, organization, and accountability.

When Legolas returns to his role as a warrior in the last chapter's flashback – the place where he is most at home and most successful – it is ironically the one place in the entire fic where I give him a defeat. A place where he makes a mistake. I think I wanted to have him to be able to learn something important here too, even when he is used to being the best and winning all the time. Here he learns that sometimes he will have to lose. Sometimes he will be wrong, but he can only move forward with what he feels is good for the mission.

All these lessons come up in some way in the current timeline, but most especially the single-minded devotion to duty. Like, I sprinkle in descriptions of how Legolas' discomfort is only a small picture of his awareness of the world, of how he can cease to be a being and just be conduit for his observations (which is his job), of how he can set aside physical pain and heartache, of how any price would be worth their success, etc., etc. It's really the driving force of how they can walk, wounded.

* * *

 **II. The Characters**

 **A. Mirkwood as a Character**

When I read about Mirkwood and its elves, I come across descriptions of them being sort of rougher and more dangerous than other elves. I know that may seem sort of derogatory but I found myself admiring that hard-won, tough, salt-of-the-earth sort of quality. They were a people at war, a people of war, besieged the way other elves were not. I liked thinking that growing up here was how a beloved character like Legolas can cut his teeth to become one of the best warriors of the elvenkind, and I wanted to depict pride in it. This is why the line 'Mirkwood demands everything out of everyone in it… We reach the end of our rope to find there is always something left...etc.' comes up often.

 **B. Thranduil**

You know how those billionaire CEOs make their kids start at the mail room? That's how I thought of him as he is depicted here, sending his kid out to do random things that ultimately helped Legolas be a better leader, not just be a good soldier. Speaking of CEOs... it's also why Thranduil never apologizes, lol. Sometimes he just has to do what he has to do.

I've said this previously, but Lee Pace as Thranduil is a scene-stealing, inspiration rod. He's like a plot bunny come to life, haha. I liked imagining his voice and cadence when I wrote, and at points I think I created scenes just so I can put in dialogue that I otherwise would not have needed. He wasn't even in the original incarnation of "Walking Wounded" but somehow bullied his way through.

My favorite bits about Thranduil here, and I think they illustrate what I am trying to depict about the character, are (1) when he sends Legolas on a suicide mission and commands him to return and actually sounds not at all kingly; and (2) when it is described that sometimes, Legolas wakes hurt and alone in the healing wards and they both get it, that he has to share Thranduil with a Kingdom. I like that tension, that sometimes his role as ruler will clash with something so fundamental, like being a father.

 **C. Legolas**

The scenes between Thranduil and Legolas were especially fun to write, because when Thranduil came into the movie universe, it's as if an entirely new side of our beloved Legolas was revealed too, and this is something creatively intriguing to me.

In my old fics, one of the things I struggled with for Legolas was his immortality while finding mortal friendships. I covered it several times. In my two recent stories however, I think my greater fixation lies in the converse. It's not anymore – how does he handle being with mortals? It's more like - why isn't he like the other elves, and how does he fare when he is with them? Over time, it's really almost as if he's more in step with the likes of Gimli and Aragorn than other elves, really, so I wanted to imagine him in situations like being in his home and learning to get along with his father and with his own people.

 **The Father-Son Dynamic** was particularly interesting to me, because Legolas in the movies seemed sort of passive aggressive and deferential until he finally really confronts Thranduil when Tauriel is under threat. I imagine the flashbacks of "Walking Wounded" to be occurring before then, so he is very much deferential here (where he fears to challenge his father's initial reassignment, where he is wary of his tone, and where he just follows and hopes his compliance can return him to warriors' duties sooner). But I also sprinkled the depiction with flashes of rebellion and independence, however, as he would eventually clearly have them.

 **Was Legolas Being Reckless With His Injuries?** I like hurt/comfort fics a lot, because it is really like an "easy" (some would say "gratuitous") means of depicting a classic hero: the struggle and the victories of a physical injury are straightforward, a character can really shine, and you really see what he or she means to the people around them (so it's like, a social cue to the reader too). If you read my other fics, I can be very heavy-handed with this genre, and "Walking Wounded" is like a tour of hurt/comfort varieties, lol. But I try to be cognizant of a few things. Like, I don't like it when characters are needlessly reckless about injury, and then it gets worse, and then everyone else is hassled. It lessens the heroism of it, I think, if the protagonist does not help himself get better and if he heavily inconveniences others later on out of some misplaced idea of pride or bearing it alone. I tried to dodge that here (with Legolas tending to himself and being open and honest once queried, and accepting assistance when their circumstances finally allowed), and I hope that care came across. I did not want to diminish the heroism of his struggle by having him contribute needlessly to his own difficulties.

The other thing I try to be careful about in hurt/comfort is that it should mean something larger. Sometimes the injury is enough of a struggle to make a good story of course, but this is just a personal preference. In "Walking Wounded" I used injury as a vehicle to go back and forth in time, linking the lessons of the past to the physical sensations and difficulties of the present.

 **D. The Fellowship**

It's almost irreverent, how Legolas can be with them and yet be so sort of, isolated in his struggles in "Walking Wounded." But I think this is why my genre here is not Action/Adventure or Friendship or something similar. There are some relationships I did not bother to dig into, or characters I was content not to flesh out, because of the creative choice to ask, only, what should compel someone to keep moving forward? What in one's long history pushes him to keep getting up? And so the past, and Legolas' old home, became a far larger character in "Walking Wounded" than his present company, save probably for Aragorn and Gimli.

I can never quite resist the Three Hunters though, and to a smaller extent, a bit of Merry (who has somehow ended up being my favorite Hobbit as of late – I do find him the most perceptive).

 **Gimli** I depicted as subtly compassionate; rough around the edges but not uncaring. **Aragorn** here is really just the old, long-suffering friend. They've known each other for awhile, including each other's quirks. Two of my favorite details in "Walking Wounded" are actually when Legolas risks pain to take a swipe at Aragorn, and when he presses at Aragorn's ankle to keep him from scolding Gimli. They are such little gestures, but I think they express familiarity and comfort in friendship.

* * *

 **III. Thank You's**

I've already sent out PMs where I was able to, but I would also like to send a shout out here to those who read, reviewed, favorited, followed, discussed, recommended, etc., "Walking Wounded." Much love to:

AndurilofTolkien, Anonymous, Alanic, Cling0514, Guest, Guild of Scribes , Lord of the Gauntlets, Lydwina Marie, MissCallaLilly, Raider-K, Reader, Sentinelle, She-Elf23, SilvanElleth, SuicidalQueen, The Enchanted Stream, and White1stteal.

You've been so kind to share your time and thoughts, and I really have to say, reviews really have the power to keep a story going. Thank you for your generosity.

* * *

 **IV. Bonus Mini-Fic: "The Fetcher"**

Let me thank you further the best way I know how – with a Bonus Mini-Fic, **"The Fetcher."**

 **Summary:** When Thranduil is injured, it is a given that Legolas would temporarily take over his duties as King. But the younger elf takes over an unexpected role too.

# # #

The Fetcher

# # #

Even for the late hour, the healing wards are unnaturally quiet. The flurry of activity that keeps it buzzing like a hive on all hours of the day has petered off to quiet shuffling and careful, considered movements. The healers speak in hushed tones and even ailing soldiers half-mad with their pains manage to keep their anguish to themselves.

I grimace in sympathy as I walk past their beds. Many are sleeping, some with faces contorted in repressed misery. Others are awake and nod at me as I move forward. We've worked together and I know them all, and it is tempting to sit by and inquire of those who are still aware. But I think things would be better all around if I simply strode forward and accomplished the task ahead of me – the final task of my impossibly long day - promptly.

The sooner I can fetch the King and transfer him to his own chambers, the sooner everyone here can find rest.

Thranduil's continued presence in the ward is keeping everyone on their toes. No one wants to disturb the King. No one wants to hamper his recovery. No one wants to show him weakness, especially since he himself is silent and stoic. But once I bear him away from here, the healers can be as harried as they wish, and those ailing can finally moan and cry to ease their pains. Perhaps my impervious father can rest easier in the privacy of his own space too, though I suspect the stoicism is not a show for him, but rather, ingrained.

It is not common practice at all that King would be sent to the wards rather than treated in his own suite of rooms, but he had been brought into the stronghold but steps from Mandos' Halls and time was of the essence. I made the decision to bring him straight to where the healers and all their necessary wares were immediately at hand, and to keep him here until his body regained strength enough to tolerate a move.

What I should have foreseen, however, is that by the time he had, he'd also regained the stubborn streak that immediately got him refusing to be transferred around, carried in a litter. And so here we still are. He will leave the healing wards only by his own power.

The room is long, and all the occupied cots are massed toward the doors I just entered. Row upon row of unoccupied spaces separate them from where my father rests, secluded at the end of the hall in the shade of a large alcove covered by thick curtains. I've stayed not a few times here myself.

I pause before two of the Royal Guard stationed at the curtains and wait to be announced to the King, but they step aside immediately and part the curtains for my entrance.

"He has been waiting for you, my lord," one of the guardsmen whispered.

I remove the circlet from my head and turn it in my hands as I step forward and approach the King. I am not surprised to find him sitting up in a neatly-made bed and surrounded by paperwork. He's been in confinement here for the last week, and traces of the productivity he refuses to ease back from, even in injury, are everywhere – ink pots, papers, books and maps.

"You kept your King waiting," he said, not even bothering to look up at me from some apparently pertinent reading material.

"I cannot apologize," I say boldly - I know he kids. _Somewhat. Sometimes_. "I was immersed in the business of the King, upon the King's own bidding, after all."

He lifts his head up at me, then. His eyes are cloudy from lingering ailment, but his gaze is as piercing as ever.

"This late?" he asks with one brow raised.

"I am not so quick to conclude Our affairs as you," I point out, "I am still learning."

He clucks his tongue in displeasure. "Something we must remedy, then. I've long since feared your exposure to the command of your people has been too limited to the battlefield. These are the times we live in of course and yet, as is plain to see, you are needed for concerns of a more domestic nature as well, especially in the event that I am incapacitated or even killed."

I do not like the topic, so I move around it. "In the subject of learning, perhaps the King might find use in new knowledge too. Ducking, for example."

He is unamused. "Legolas..."

I sigh. "I understand and I will happily subject myself to any lesson you see fit, _aran-nin_ , but only to please you. I am content in my knowledge and I do not seek any other post but that of your Prince. I am not ready to be a King nor will I ever be. This Kingdom is nothing without you. I cannot even imagine your absence here."

"What you say is a failure _ion-nin_ ," he tells me, tone clipped, "not a compliment. The Kingdom must endure, always. If it cannot survive beyond me, I have failed it. You must be ready to take the crown at a moment's notice, Legolas. Things can change in the blink of an eye. They have for me, when I lost my own father. You must also recognize the possibility of losing-"

I do not like talk of this. I raise my hand to silence him, and it surprises the both of us. I am still holding the circlet I removed upon entering the room, and the King's eyes narrow upon the crown, almost thrust toward his nose.

"You are always so quick to remove that," he observes, flatly.

"It constricts my head."

"It seems the Prince is convinced the smiths have botched its making and need reminding of-"

"Perhaps figuratively," I growl in defense of our craftsmen, "it constricts me, only in a manner of speaking." I shove it back on top of my head.

His eyes light up and I realize, belatedly, he is teasing. He reaches forward and brushes stray strands of hair from my face, dislodged from my braids by the violent return of the detested circlet. The barest tips of his fingers brush the skin on my forehead, but I feel it to the core of my bones. We seldom ever touch. Only in injury and fear of loss do we ever find ourselves here, like this.

"And they say it is I who is ill-tempered," he murmurs.

I snort at him, and he takes his hand away. I still feel its warmth branded across my head though, and it is far more weighty than any crown.

"The healers say you are well on your way to recovery," I report to him, "and that they expect no lasting damage from your injury. But 'recovering' is far from 'well,' you would be best served to remember. One is the absence of hurt, the other the presence of strength. You are not the latter yet, quite far from. They allow your transfer back to your own chambers, but you are prohibited from leaving it for another week at least. Visitors will be restricted, and you are not to tax yourself in any conceivable way."

I realize quickly that I've used the wrong words. No one 'allows' or 'prohibits' Thranduil anything in Thranduil's own Halls. His jaws are set and his eyes are aflame.

"I will re-phrase," I say quickly, and I stifle a laugh at my own nervousness.

"Oh please do try," he dares me.

"It pleases the healers to confirm the King's speedy recovery," I scramble, "and they delight in the knowledge of your enduring, unwavering strength. In accordance with the express wishes of his majesty, arrangements have been made for his prompt transfer back to his own chambers. They only regret the inconvenience that you've had to wait and suffer being here so long. They humbly request that you keep to chambers and refrain from seeing what is otherwise sure to be a deluge of visitors both inquiring upon the health of the King and also urgently needing his wise counsel."

Thranduil barks out a laugh, finding as I hoped he would, the rapid escalation of flattery and decline of sincerity to be amusing. "That silver tongue of yours has you slithering away to a merry escape again, Legolas. I might make a diplomat of you yet."

I smile at him indulgently. I like the sound of his laugh, and how his eyes shine when he smiles in earnest. It is not a common sight, not in our besieged land, not for the King who must always seem mighty and infallible, not for a father who always has to send out his son to war. As a matter of fact, our nighttime walks from the healing wards to our private chambers have become a tradition of sorts, except usually it is the other way around.

I would return from patrol injured, and head to the healers for treatment. If I am not too bad off, the King would find time to see me only at the end of the day, upon conclusion of all his other business. If I am well enough, we walk home together – to the wing of Thranduil's Halls housing the royal residence. If I am not, he lets me rest where I am and returns the next night either to visit with me again or walk me home.

For the past week it's been I doing the Elvenking's work for the Kingdom, and similarly, I've been doing all the things he used to do for me whenever I was the one ailing. I've been visiting every night, right until I can bring him home with me.

"Anything here I should be looking at?" I remember to ask, of the paperwork strewn about.

"There are no pressing matters here that demand a King's attention," Thranduil says, in reference to me, I realize belatedly. "I am fully aware I've been sent the lighter missives in a bid to indulge me, _ion-nin_. Whatever needs doing, I am certain you have it well in hand. The only thing I need from you now is to bear me away from here. It's been torture enough for everyone."

My brows raise. Ah, he is aware of his effects, but I really should not be so surprised. He is the most astute elf I know. He rises from his seat, and I hover nearby to make myself available. I do not reach for him to offer assistance, he could never suffer it gladly. I wait to be held, and he does reach for my arm. Just as the healers said, he is recovering but still unwell.

He lands on his feet beside me, and I fold my arm so that his fingers are locked by my elbow. We begin our walk forward. _Ada_ is in lighter, less formal robes to my relief, and I am able to step around the fabric as I would never have been able to do if he were garbed in the more regal fashion he prefers when he is better.

The curtains part for us even before I open my mouth to order it done. Father's guards are truly attentive. We step through, and the two elves follow us a few steps behind as we make our way down the length of the healing ward.

The healers stop whatever they are doing and lower their heads, and the ailing soldiers who are awake stir to attention before the King dissuades them from doing any harm to themselves with a raised hand. He returns their nods regally and efficiently, and in moments we are well out of there.

The Halls are quiet and emptied save for the occasional night guard and the two elves discreet and soundless behind us. The stronghold has always been vast and never feels full, but on nights like this they feel especially hallowed. It is cavernous, and the dimm yellow torches cast such long, beautiful shadows of our winding ways and towering columns.

I walk quietly beside my father, and I feel him relaxing his grip on my arm but keeping it there. Being out of the healing wards and into this more open space after days of confinement is reviving him somewhat, a feeling I can readily sympathize with.

"You've conducted yourself very well these last few days, Legolas," he tells me quietly. "I regret the circumstances upon which you are forced to display your talents to me, but I am heartened by what I've seen. You are ready and able to stand in my place, no matter what you might think."

I sigh and shake my head. I do not want to speak of this. I do not want to ponder his loss. I do not think I can bear it. Even from where I allow it only at the barest edges of my mind, the memory of having found him near death makes me tremble. If I let it come closer it will break me. I am already motherless. I refuse to be made an orphan.

"You're shaking," he notices, and he stops walking to look at me searchingly. "Are you well? Wasn't it only days ago that it was I fetching you?"

I set my jaws in displeasure. It was the same old story, until it wasn't. I was hurt but healing. The King had come to me in the wards at night and brought me back to my rooms where I was expected to stay for at least three days' rest. It was why Thranduil had to come out of the stronghold, to a diplomatic duty that had originally been meant for a lesser royal like me. His party was ambushed and he was nearly killed. Upon hearing the alarm, no one stopped me from leaving my rooms sooner than the healers felt prudent. I rode out, and it was I who found him. It was I who carried him home. He was pale and limp and bleeding and insensate. There was nothing of the elf I knew, nothing but a shell, he was halfway gone-

I step away from him to spare my shaking body from further scrutiny, but I step back toward him when I remember my role as _adar_ 's crutch, one of the few he allows to be thus. I regret it to the core of my heart when his hand does not return to my arm.

"Legolas," he says more firmly in demand of an answer, "Are you well?"

"I am well," I say evenly, but from the disbelieving look on his face, I decide to give him a little bit more of an answer. "I am only weary." It isn't untrue.

"Do you need the attentions of the healers we've just left?" the King demands, "Ai, you've barely recovered and we've thrust too much upon you."

"Peace, _adar_ ," I implore him. "I am well enough. It is..." I hesitate. "It's just that..."

I do not want to talk about this. I do not. But if the consequence of keeping my silence is that I would be dragged back to the healing ward for an unnecessary examination, and for the King to force himself into wellness so that he may resume his duties and let me rest, then I can very well open my mouth to speak.

"I was the one who found you," I say, and my voice is suddenly ragged. "You wouldn't remember. I pressed my hand to the injury on your chest. I felt your heart thundering through, fighting hard but also, inextricably, pumping out your blood. I can still feel the warm wetness of it, and your pulse in my palm, like a drumbeat." I clench my hands into fists at my sides. I am really shaking now.

"It wasn't as bad as all that," the King lies, because I don't think he knows what to say to me. I don't blame him. I don't know what to think.

"I carried you home," I whisper. "I begged you to stay."

My father looks away from me, and thus he remembers, as I do, the guards at our backs. I hear them shift and turn away from us. _Adar_ shifts too, and I realize he is shielding me from the sight of our silent, inescapable witnesses. A tear escapes my eye, and I blink the rest of them away. I do not want to shame my father or myself further, especially not as I wear a crown of Mirkwood.

We resume walking once I've composed myself and the pesky trembling peters off. His hand returns to my arm, but slightly higher up and tighter.

The difference is small but distinct in his warm, powerful grip. He is supporting me this time, not the other way around as we had originally set out. We've walked like this many times before, whenever he escorts me home from the healing wards. I never hold onto him, even when I am still weak and my legs are trembling. He is the King; I let him touch me and usher me forward however way he wills, only as he sees fit. Thus far I've never fallen on his watch. He always knows when to hold me and when to let me walk on my own.

THE END (FOR NOW)

February 23, 2018

So here we come now to the end... I usually place a preview here for a new story, but "The Fetcher" wrote itself in a few hours and I'm not sure at this point what else to do with it (I may or may not expand on it, I already have some ideas but not a lot of time), so it's not so much a preview as a thank you present :) I'm not sure if I will post it independently, or if I'll be back again in the fandom soon or at all, but this has been a true joy while the ride lasted, and I hope that when I am called by some force back, I will still be able to come up with something that someone somewhere will enjoy. Until then, I thank you for reading, and I wish everyone all the best in RL and their creative lives. Hugs to all, Mirrordance


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